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Q o >s t o rv 



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lYS. 



COPYRIGHT OFFICE. 



No registration of title of this book 
as a preliminary to copyright protec- 
tion has been found. 



Forwarded to Order Division 



(Date) 



i by the new 
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ing English 
ed for ama- 



(Apr. 5, 1901—5,000.) 

rear peTiormaiiue. iuis puunuauwu w»b vugm-auy iiii/cu.u.cu iur me benefit of 
readers only, but the increasing demand for the plays for acting purposes has 
far outrun their merely literary success. With the idea of placing this excel- 
lent series within the reach of the largest possible number of amateur clubs, we 
have obtained authority to offer them for acting purposes at an author's roy- 
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Ten Dollars for Each Performance. 

This rate does not apply to prof essional performances ', for which terms will be 
made known on application. 



TTLTp A TUT A T^fYFJ^ I A Farcical Romance in Three Acts. By Arthur 
J <-£^ ru.YLfX^\JL>&> | w Pinero. Seven male and five female char- 
1 acters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an exterior 
and an interior, not at all difficult. This admirable farce is too well known 
through its recent performance by the Lyceum Theatre Company, New York, to 
need description. It is especially recommended to young ladies' schools and 
colleges. (1895.) 



W THE CABINET MINISTER. 



f 



A Farce in Four Acts. By 
Arthur W. Pinero. Ten male 
and nine female characters. 
Costumes, modern society ; scenery, three interiors. A very amusing piece, in- 
genious in construction, and brilliant in dialogue. (1892.) 



DANDY DICK. 



A Farce in Three Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. 
Seven male, four female characters. Costumes, mod- 
ern ; scenery, two interiors. This very amusing piece 
was another success in the New York and Boston theatres, and has been ex- 
tensively played from manuscript by amateurs, for whom it is in every respect 
suited. It provides an unusual number of capital character parts, is very funny, 
and an excellent acting piece. Plays two hours and a half. (1893.) 

TUT T-TORRV T-TOP^F I A Comedy in Three Acts. By Arthur 
1 nfi n\J?&I> X IT1KJ£kOS1» I w> Pinero. Ten male, five female char- 

1 acters. Scenery, two interiors and an ex- 
terior ; costumes, modern. This piece is best known in this country through the 
admirable performance of Mr. John Hare, who produced it in all the principal 
cities. Its story presents a clever satire of false philanthropy, and is full of 
interest and humor. Well adapted for amateurs, by whom it has been success- 
fully acted. Plays two hours and a half. (1892.) 



LADY BOUNTIFUL. 



A Play $i Four Acts. By Arthur W. 
Pinero. Eight male and seven female char- 
acters. Costumes, modern; scenery, four 

interiors, not easy. A play of powerful sympathetic interest, % little sombre in 

key, but not unrelieved by humorous touches. (1892.) 



THE SOUP TUREEN 



AND OTHER 



DUOLOGUES AND DIALOGUES 



TRANSLATED BY MEMBERS OF THE 

BELLEVUE DRAMATIC CLUB 

OF NEWPORT 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 

1902 



!bRARYG>F 
MGRESSi 

o:es Received 

APR ^3 1903 

Entry 
CLASS XXc. No. 

COPY B. 



Co 



.<*•' 






Copyright, 1878, by Henry Holt & Co. 




NOTE. 

There is no change of scenery in these plays. The 
division of the text into " scenes " merely follows the French 
literary custom, and indicates no interruption of the action 
whatever. The stage is set to represent an interior, but no 
scenery is actually necessary. 



• c 

» ■ « « • • • 



C i O CO 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Soup Tureen, i male, 2 females 5 

The Unlucky Star. 2 males 21 

Lelia. 1 male, 1 female 31 

The Serenade. 2 females 52 

The Flower of Tlemcen. 2 males, 3 females . . 60 

The Old Homestead. 2 males, 2 females .... 92 

The Cardinal's Illness. 6 males, 1 female . . . 121 



THE SOUP TUREEN. 

BY E. D'HERVILLY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Spoon. 

Mr. de Honduras. 
Servant. 

Scene — A drawing-room — London. 



SCEXE I. 
Mrs. Spoon. 



[Enter Mrs. Spoon in full ball-dress — speaks, as if 
to somebody behind scenes. ] Theodora, you under- 
stand, do you not, that the carriage is to be here at 
ten o'clock ? [Looks at clock.] Half-past nine. I shall 
have time to pass myself in review, as poor Colonel 
Spoon used to say. [Before glass.] Steady! not bad — 
and modesty itself. I shall have to follow rigidly the 
programme laid down by my dear Jemima. She 
begged me to appear at her ball this evening, simply 
dressed, that I might not dazzle the eyes of her un- 
fashionable friends ; so I have been obliged to take a 
reef in my sails, as Colonel Spoon used to say. Never 

s 



5 THE SOUP TUREEN. 

mind, I make rather a nice-looking widow yet, and 
could he see me even in this simple but tasteful ball- 
dress, I am sure my poor husband would say, " Sol- 
dier, I am satisfied with you." Poor Colonel Spoon ! 
Ah ! what a cruel fate it is, tha.t takes away your 
husband in the flower of your. . .age. The Colonel 
took cold, a few months after our marriage, in re- 
turning one evening from his club. It was nothing 
at first, but science took hold of it. The faculty 
soon passed sentence upon him. At last, one morn- 
ing he took a dose, and a few minutes afterwards 
medical science was satisfied. [After a moment of pen- 
sive thought, she draws aside the window curtains, and 
looks into the darkness outside. ] Still raining ! What 
a horrid winter ! Dark as pitch ! Not a star to be 
seen ! As Theodora, my maid, says, one would really 
think that the poverty-stricken angels had pawned 
the stars, this month. [Laughs.] I'm thinking of 
that imbecile, that queer good-natured little fellow, 
with the eyes of a pelican sacrificing itself for its 
young — that man whom I've been continually meet- 
ing in the streets for the last week. I declare, I 
should be perfectly happy if he got the whole or 
even a part of this tremendous shower on his noble 
shoulders ! That would cool down his ardor, I 
should think. [A knock, L. ] Well, what is it ? [Enter 
Servant, with waiter. \ I told you I wanted the car- 
riage at ten o'clock ! 

Servant. I beg your pardon, madam, but a gentle- 
man wishes to speak with you on urgent business. 

Mrs. Spoon. But I gave orders that I was engaged 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. j 

Servant. I told him so, but he begged me to give 
you this card. [Gives card.] 

Mrs. Spoon [reading card]. "Wilfrid de Hondu- 
ras." Honduras ! I don't know Honduras ! Let 
me see ! Yes ! now I come to think of it, I'm 
sure I have seen the name in the newspaper. Hon- 
duras ! Oh ! now I know ! It's that foreigner — it's 
that South American who — that's it — a famous bric- 
a-brac hunter. What can he want of me ? Suppose 
I send him back to his bric-a-brac ? " Most urgent 
business ! " Oh, well, Joseph, show him in. [Aside.] 
Didn't Eve admit that the serpent came to see her 
— out of curiosity ? Exit Servant. She sits down and 
seems lost in thought.] De Honduras ! I have never 
even asked what this inhabitant of the New World 
looked like ! What a singular visit ! What on earth 
can I have to do with an ex-Indian who buys old 
cracked china at auction ? 



SCENE II. 

Mrs. Spoon — De Honduras. 
[Enter De Honduras in evening dress.] 

De Honduras. Madame. 

Mrs. Spoon [with a little scream of surprise']. Ah ! 
[Aside.] The man with the eyes of a devoted pelican. 
This is too much ! [Aloud, pointing to the door, 
angrily.] I beg, sir, that 

De Honduras [aside]. She recognizes me. [Aloud.] 
Have pity, madame 



8 THE SOUP TUREEN. 

Mrs. Spoon. Go, sir — or you will compel an unpro- 
tected woman to use the stronger means that a touch 
of this bell will call to her aid. 

De Honduras. Listen to me, madame — only one 
word. In the name of all that you hold most dear ! 
In the name of your collection ! One word ! 

Mrs. Spoon [aside, while De H., drawn by irre- 
sistible curiosity, stealthily examines the ornaments about 
the room]. The man is crazy ! and yet there's 
nothing very alarming about him. He is well enough 
dressed. The carriage has not come — but, still . . . 
Joseph is on the watch. Well, let him speak. 
[Aloud.] Sir, you have entered a private house 
at night ; but as you did not break in, you may 
speak. I will listen to you. 

De Honduras. Madame, I shall not attempt to give 
you a complete picture of my horrible position ; I 
shall give a simple sketch — a mere outline. 

Mrs. Spoon [pointing to chair]. Profit by your 
victory, sir ; sit down. 

De Honduras [bows and sits]. To begin, then, I 
am that miserable being — that unknown intruder— 
that wandering Christian — who for the last week has 
thrown himself in your path — as disagreeable, per- 
haps, as orange-peel, but surely not so dangerous. 

Mrs. Spoon [dryly]. To the point, if you please. 

De Honduras. The unrelieved contempt you show 
for one of the most respectful of men, madame, 
will, I am sure, be softened, when you learn that my 
motive in calling upon you is entirely proper. Yes, 
madame, the sky of June is not purer than the 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. g 

depths of my heart. My name is Wilfrid de Hondu- 
ras 

Mrs. Spoon. I know it. If I may believe the best 
reports, you are a mad collector of china. 

De Honduras [interrupting]. Why! I have never 
bitten any one 

Mrs. Spoon \_sneeringly\. Ah ! I remember, now. 
It was you who paid five hundred pounds for a mus- 
tard pot — an old Marseille 

De Honduras. The mustard is perhaps a slight ex- 
aggeration ; but I certainly did give five hundred 
pounds for the jar — to whatever uses it may once 
have been forced to submit. 

Mrs. Spoon. I beg, sir, that you will come to the 
point. 

De Honduras. Very well, madame, shall I tear aside 
the veil still further ? 

Mrs. Spoon. Tear, sir, but tear quickly. 

De Honduras [fw«]. Well, then, the event took 
place in London. It was on a beautiful day of last 
month, about noon. It rained, but only in torrents. 
I was at an auction sale of old china, which had been 
collected by an ardent lover of such things — Mr. 
Montague. I bid for a superb soup tureen — a most 
exquisite thing — nearly two hundred years old — for 
it dated from the time when Louis XIV., after having 
sent his silver service to the Mint, " was consider- 
ing whether he should not take to china," accord- 
ing to Saint Simon. Oh ! what a tureen ! Madame, 
the festoons and fillets, the mantlings and foliage 
with which it was ornamented, would have rejoiced 



IO THE SOUP TUREEN. 

the heart of Bernard de Palissy himself. Moreover, 
it was covered with armorial bearings, a thing that is 
most unusual ! 

Mrs. Spoon [aside]. He really is stark mad ! 
[Aloud.] Let us be serious, sir. 

De Honduras. I am as serious as Pluto himself ; 
but to be brief. This tureen was knocked down to 
me for ^1,720 and some pence, which I shall not 
trouble you by mentioning. 

Mrs. Spoon [laughing]. Thank you, thank you ! 

De Honduras [sadly]. And this tureen; this dream 
of my youth ; this consolation of my riper years ; 
this tureen had been bereaved of its cover — widowed, 
madame ! 

Mrs. Spoon [coldly]. A most heart-rending story ; 
but I can do nothing to help it ; and, as I suppose, 
sir, that all this is the result of a wager, I will 
acknowledge that you have won. [Points to the 
door.] 

De Honduras. Would you drive me away, most 
cruel of your sex ? 

Mrs. Spoon [angrily]. Good heavens ! I've not 
got your cover ! 

De Honduras. A terrible mistake, madame, terrible ! 

Mrs. Spoon. What do you mean ? 

De Honduras [quickly]. Not a word — I know all ! 
The cover is here ! You bought it a month ago, at 
our friend Chapman's, the china merchant's, as a 
hanging vase for your conservatory. Am I not 
right ? That cover — if it has been correctly de- 
scribed to me — that cover, madame, is mine ! Chap- 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. Ir 

man did not know your name or your address, but 
one day, when I was in his shop, you passed by, and 
he exclaimed, " There she is! the lady with the cover!" 
With the fleetness and accuracy of the chamois I 
followed your footsteps over streets and bridges. But, 
alas ! like the chimera of the poet, you eluded me. 
for a whole week, vanishing into all sorts of shops 
each time that I hoped to reach you and to implore 
you to sell me your cover, at no matter what price. 
At last, I have found where you live, and I appear 
before you, as urgent and pale as the ghost of the 
Commendatore. 

Mrs. Spoon. This is clearly an advanced stage of 
insanity ! 

De Honduras \yiolently\. Ah, madame, it is evident 
that you do not collect ! You do not know this devour- 
ing passion ! While we are searching for a missing 
piece, we feel in us the blood of the Indian tracking 
his enemy along the war-path, to take his scalp and 
hang it proudly at the door of his wigwam ! and I 
have sworn to get your cover ! A tureen without 
its cover is like the solitary palm that sighs as the 
wind passes it by ; like Paul, two thousand leagues 
from his Virginia ; like one of the Siamese twins 
separated from his brother ; like a Laplander de- 
prived of his reindeer. In heaven's name, madame, 
sell me your cover ! 

Mrs. Spoon [aside, looking alarmed]. I am horribly 
frightened. [Aloud.'] One moment ! [Rings j enter 
Servant]. Bring me the hanging flower- vase that is 
in the green-house. [Exit Servant. ] 



12 



THE SOUP TUREEN. 



De Honduras. Oh ! is it possible [with great delight] 
you consent ? 

Mrs. Spoon. To give up this cover ? Certainly. 

De Honduras. Certainly, you say ? Ah ! how en- 
chanting that adverb sounds to my ears. Words fail 
me to express the pleasure I 

Mrs. Spoon. Do not try, I beg ! 

De Honduras. I obey. But at least, madame, tell 
me the price you set on this rare article ? 

Mrs. Spoon. Oh, I set no price. I will give it to 
you. 

De Honduras. You give me — a real Rouen ? A 
— you — [with sudden suspicion] — but perhaps the 
enamel is scratched ? Some hidden flaw ? 

Mrs. Spoon. No, the piece is perfect. [Noise heard 
of broken china .] At least it was perfect a minute 
ago, but now, alas, I fear 

De Honduras. Heavens ! What do I hear ? What a 
blow ? My — your — in fact our cover — I feel very 
ill, madame — I — real Rouen — come — I — broken into 
a thousand pieces— ah ! ah ! [Faints], 

Mrs. Spoon [ fairly stupefied] . Good heavens ! This 
caps the climax ! Sir, sir ! Oh ! what a fearful ad- 
venture. Sir, I implore you to come to life again ! 
This is perfectly horrible ! And if he should die 
here ! Sir ! A corpse with me at this time of night 
[growing more and more excited], and when there's 
so little room, too. Sir ! This is a most irregular 
proceeding, sir ! I'll try slapping his hands ! [Ad- 
ministers this ancient and honorable remedy '.] Sir ! 
Dear Mr. de Honduras, revive once more ! For 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. jj 

heaven's sake ! And the ball ! Oh, dear, the ball ! 
What shall I do ? and I can't unlace him either ! 
Ah ! at such a critical moment how useful the 
Colonel would have been ! [De H. makes a move- 
ment^ There ! He is coming to life ! Saved ! 

De Honduras [opening his eyes]. "Where am I ? 
Oh ! it is you, madame ! What has happened ? Oh ! 
I recollect ! The cover ! [Shows signs of renewed 
faintness. ] 

Mrs. Spoon [alarmed]. Heavens ! is he going to 
faint again ? Sir 

De Honduras. It's over — I feel better. Thanks — 

Mrs. Spoon. Do you really feel better ? Would 
you like a glass of water ? 

De Honduras. Thank you, I should. [Scornfully 
examines the tumbler that she brings, and mutters, 
" Imitation Venetian ! " then drinks .] Ah ! now I 
feel completely — repaired. What excuse can I 
make to you, madame ? But you see my nervous 
system has become so frightfully sensitive since— 
[He takes his hat and is going.] 

Mrs. Spoon [with an air of curiosity]. Since 
when ? 

De Honduras. Since the breaking of an engage- 
ment which promised to overwhelm me with happi- 
ness. 

Mrs. Spoon. I am sorry to have been the innocent 
cause 

De Honduras [sitting] . How kind you are ! It 
would be a great relief to my feelings, if you would 
let me give you a few confidential details of my life, 



14 



THE SOUP TUREEN. 



Mrs. Spoon [aside]. This is too much. The man 
takes too much advantage of his condition. The 
ball ! the ball ! [Aloud \] I am very sorry, but I have 
an engagement. 

De Honduras. Two words will suffice. My story 
is simple. Several years ago, I was made most 
happy 

Mrs. Spoon. I am very sorry, sir — I regret ex- 
tremely — but I cannot wait any longer. A ball, 
given to celebrate the wedding 

De Honduras. A wedding was just what I was com- 
ing to ; mine, by-the-by ; but which never took 
place, for the young lady who was ripening for me 
upon the family tree — if I may be allowed the 
simile 



Mrs. Spoon. Really, sir 

De Honduras. In short, Miss Morville, although 
she was not acquainted with me — - — 

Mrs. Spoon [aside]. Who did he say? Miss Mor- 
ville ! [A loud.] Did you say Miss Morville ? 

De Honduras. Yes, madame — I was going to marry 
that young lady. Our witnesses — our parents, I 
mean — had arranged it for us. But before I could 
throw myself at her feet, breathing the tenderest 
expressions of affection, the dear, capricious child 
had given her white and precious hand to a rich 
foreigner 

Mrs. Spoon. To a foreigner ? [Aside.] How 
strange ! [Aloud.] Poor Mr. de Honduras ! 

De Honduras. Say rather, poor Mr. de Stromberg, 
for Honduras is a fictitious name — I adopted it for 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



IS 



the sake of guarding the strictest incognito in my 
relations with the agents of the auction rooms. Yes, 
madame, I am the unfortunate Hector de Strom- 
berg. 

Mrs. Spoon [aside]. Can it be possible that this 
is the young man ! Why, he was the Colonel's un- 
known rival ! he whom I refused to marry — What a 
coincidence ! 

De Honduras. I do not blame Miss Morville. She 
did not know me, I had never seen her. There- 
fore there was nothing heart-breaking, to her at least, 
in the rupture of our engagement,. As for me, I had 
built upon this marriage — a whole castle in the air. 
Ah ! I was sadly deceived. 

Mrs. Spoon [aside]. Poor fellow ! [Aloud]. How 
you must hate this treacherous girl ! 

De Honduras. I have treasured no bitter feeling 
towards her. But her refusal of me, without motive, 
gave me such a blow as struck to the depths of 
my soul ! This is why I have plunged into the 
ceramic art in the flower of my years ! 

Mrs. Spoon [aside]. The Colonel himself, had 
he been in this young man's place, would not have 
grieved more for me, I am convinced. [Aloud.] 
Into the ceramic art, did you say ? 

De Honduras. Yes, madame — and up to my neck 
in it — and by so doing, I have been able to preserve 
my deep respect for the sex of which I considered 
Miss Morville — until I had the pleasure of meeting 
you, madame — the choicest specimen. At least, I 
said to myself, I shall never be able to say of woman 



1 6 THE SOUP TUREEN. 

what Hamlet thought of them. In all my sorrows 
I will say only, " Frailty, thy name is — china." 

Mrs. Spoon. And you are still — unmarried ? 

De Honduras. As Paris, the shepherd 

Mrs. Spoon. Ah ! then perhaps, in spite of your 
grief, you have distributed a few apples here and 
there ? 

De Honduras. Seldom, madame, I assure you. 
Paris, in every respect, is far from Mount Ida. 

Mrs. Spoon. I beg your pardon. Excuse my want 
of tact. Have you never heard of Miss Morville 
since ? 

De Honduras. Never ! The rich foreigner she 
preferred to me, is, I am told, a colonel in the Amer- 
ican militia — his name, I think, is — Fork. 

Mrs. Spoon [laughing]. You are mistaken. His 
name was Spoon. 

De Honduras [carelessly]. I beg pardon — Ah! 
the worthy Yankee's name is Spoon, eh ? 

Mrs. Spoon [angrily]. Respect the memory of 
my husband, sir ! 

De Honduras [suddenly enlightened]. The memory 
of your husband ? Spoon was your husband ! and 
you are actually a widow — and — and — ah ! then — 
this is Miss Morville, with whom I have the frantic 
joy of speaking ? 

Mrs. Spoon. I have betrayed myself ! Yes, you 
have come to Colonel Spoon's widow for a cover. 

De Honduras [with intense Joy] . Oh ! miracles of 
the ceramic art — I see all now ! 

Mrs. Spoon. All ? What do you mean, Mr. Hector ? 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



*7 



De Honduras. You call me Hector ? Ah ! that 
name from your pretty lips effaces years of sorrow. 
Yes, I understand it all, now. While I was in ar- 
dent pursuit of that Golden Fleece in china, which 
now lies broken into a thousand bits, while I fol- 
lowed you persistently night and day — in the streets, 
at the theatre — Ah ! madame, the sweetest, tenderest 
feelings gradually entered my soul ! After three 
days of vain pursuit, my heart no longer held a 
tureen, but your adored image only ! 

Mrs. Spoon. Mr. Hector ! 

De Honduras. Every look that you gave me showed 
but too plainly your utter contempt for me, and from 
the madly enthusiastic collector I became the ar- 
dent but despairing lover. Ah ! how happy I am 
to have found in the fascinating unknown, towards 
whom I was so irresistibly drawn, the widow Spoon ! 

Mrs. Spoon. Mr. Hector ! 

De Honduras. Yes, I reproached myself with my 
infidelity to the memory of Miss Morville, and if 
the collector had not often whispered to the lover 
" Courage," I firmly believe that neither the one nor 
the other would ever have the happiness that they 
now have, of throwing themselves at your feet, im- 
ploring you to give them 

Mrs. Spoon. My dear friend 



De Honduras {much excited\ Pardon my boldness ! 
Look favorably upon this strange adventure, and 
deign — to complete my collection. Oh ! forgive 
me, I've lost my head — deign to reward my long 
constancy. Yes, one word from you will efface the 



1 8 THE SOUP TUREEN. 

remembrance of all that I have suffered. I ask you, 
with tears of joy, madame, and smiles of hope, to 
give me youi cover — your charming hand, I mean. 

Mrs. Spoon. My dear friend ! After my servant's 
carelessness just now, in breaking so valuable a 
piece, what can I reply to the collector ? 

De Honduras. Devil take the collection ! What is 
china to me now ? I love you ! 

Mrs. Spoon. This earnest appeal deserves an 
honest reward ; but my poor friend, what am I — a 
sad widow ! I bring you a broken heart 

De Honduras [ perfectly beside himself]. I'll have it 
riveted ! 

Mrs. Spoon. My heart ! 

De Honduras. No, cruel woman. I don't know 
what I'm saying. 

Mrs. Spoon. I should think not, when your beau- 
tiful dream is in pieces. Do you no longer think of 
it ? What could repay you for it ? 

De Honduras [in transport]* I will console it 

Mrs. Spoon. My cover ? 

De Honduras. No, no, your heart. The pieces are 
good. 

Mrs. Spoon [laughing]. Of my heart ? 

De Honduras. Oh ! for heaven's sake, let us stop 
these cross purposes. The day is won — the cover 
has fallen, the collector has vanished, and the lover 
remains ! I adore you ! 

Mrs. Spoon [wickedly]. Even without the cover? 

De Honduras [rises]. With all my tureen ! [Knock 
at the door. ] 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



19 



Mrs. Spoon. Well ? What is it? [Enter Servant.] 

Servant. The cover that you bought the other day, 
ma'am, has been taken to the jeweler to be mounted, 
ma'am. 

Mrs. Spoon. What was that noise then that I heard 
just now ? 

Servant. A jardiniere, that your dog, ma'am, 
knocked over. Your carriage is ready, ma'am. [Exit.] 

Mrs. Spoon. Well, Mr. Hector — what do you say 
to that ? Your cover is not broken. 

De Honduras. I am sorry for it ! For now I sup- 
pose you will send us both away, one in the arms of 
the other, and then I shall certainly die. 

Mrs. Spoon. "Certainly" — you have returned my 
"enchanting adverb." No, Hector, I shall not send 
you away ; but I must leave you, until to-morrow. 
This evening I am going to a ball given to celebrate 
the wedding of my friend Jemima Doughty, a com- 
patriot of the — late Colonel. 

De Honduras. Miss Jemima, who is to be married 
to Sir Robert Gravesend ? 

Mrs. Spoon. The same. 

De Honduras. That being the case, I shall beg for 
a seat in your carriage. [Draws from his pocket a wed- 
ding invitation.) My invitation (pointing to his dress 
suit) and my evening dress must emphatically prove 
to you that I too am going to a ball — that ball is 
given by my friend, Sir Robert Gravesend. 

Mrs. Spoon. What a delightful coincidence ! Are 
you well acquainted with him ? 

De Honduras. Intimately. We were both sick to- 



20 THE SOUP TUREEN. 

gether on the same boat, from Calais to Dover. Such 
things create a life-long tie, and besides he is a collec- 
tor of china. His wife will be very happy. 

Mrs. Spoon. That we shall see ! In the meantime, 
I will give you with pleasure a seat in my carriage or 
coach, Mr. Hector. And the cover? What orders 
shall I give about that ? 

De Honduras. Let it be placed upon the sideboard 
in your dining-room, and perhaps some day my 
tureen will join it, with your consent. 

Mrs. Spoon. I shall expect you to cultivate my 
taste for the ceramic art, Hector. 



J 



THE UNLUCKY STAR. 



BY JULES GUILLEMOT, 



CHARACTERS. 

Pastorel. 
Marius Cabassol. 



SCENE I. 

Room in a hotel. 

Pastorel [alone, seated at a table preparing to write], 
I must write to my relations in the south. They'll 
be surprised to hear of my return, after not hearing 
from me for so many years. — What a draught ! [Goes 
to window, looks out, and then shuts it.] That gentle- 
man opposite is still at his window ; he can't have 
much to do. [He sits down and is about to commence 
his letter.] The... what is the day of the month? 
[Looks at almanac hanging on the wall.] Havre, July 
17, 1877 — [Loud knocking. ] 

21 



22 THE UNLUCKY STAR. 

SCENE II. 

Pastorel — Marius Cabassol. 

Cabassol [entering excitedly]. Excuse me, sir, hut 
was it you who slammed the window so violently ? 

Pastorel [calmly], I shut my window just now, but 
I am not aware that I slammed it violently. 

Cabassol. Excuse me, sir, excuse me, but you did 
slam it violently. I was at my window. [Points to 
window.] There, sir ! opposite ; you're on the second 
floor of this hotel, I on the third. You look out on 
the street and on the court-yard, whereas my lookout 
is only on the court-yard. Life is full of injustice. 
For want of something better to do, I thought I 
would amuse myself [with a sarcastic smile] by look- 
ing on the court-yard of a hotel (if that can be called 
amusement) ; I happened to look in this direction, 
and saw you writing — why, there is the very letter. 
[Points to letter, and knocks on table.] I was looking 
at you very innocently — I don't think there is any 
rudeness in looking at a person writing thirty feet 
off — it was then you got up and slammed the win- 
dow violently . . .1 am not sensitive, and am naturally 
good-tempered, but your proceeding appeared to me 
most insulting, and I come to ask you if it was in- 
tentional on your part. 

Pastorel. Not at all, sir — I did it to avoid a 
draught ! and because the wind blew my paper 
away. [Aside.] What a queer fellow this is ! He 
is very annoying. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 2 ^ 

Cabassol. You assure me you had no other mo- 
tive ? 

Pastorel. I assure you. 

Cabassol. On your honor ? 

Pastorel [smiling in spite of himself]. On my 
honor. 

Cabassol [to himself]. Then I suppose / must 
apologize. That's very disgusting ! — [Aloud.] Sir ! 
I bid you good morning — I leave you without the 
slightest ill feeling. [Starts to go out.] 

Pastorel [calling him back]. Sir ! 

Cabassol [returning instantly]. No, sir, no ! I'm 
perfectly satisfied — I avoid quarrels as much as I 
can, being of a peaceful disposition — notwithstand- 
ing which I am constantly embroiling myself. I can't 
help thinking that I was born under an unlucky star 
— Oh ! if I were to tell you the history of my life ! . . . 

Pastorel. Oh ! I will not detain you, and I, you 
see. . . [Shows his half-written letter^] 

Cabassol. That's nothing, I've plenty of time. 
\He sits.] 

Pastorel [aside] . This is too much — he has settled 
himself for the day ! 

Cabassol. I am from the south ! 

Pastorel. I can see that, sir. 

Cabassol [irritably]. How can you see that, 
sir ? 

Pastorel. No offence ! I am from the south my- 
self. 

Cabassol. I should never have supposed it. 

Pastorel. But, I have been away thirty years. 



2 4 



THE UNLUCKY STAR. 



Cabassol. And I, sir, have scarcely ever been away 
from there. 

Pastorel. And yet, you are here in Havre. 

Cabassol. Do you want me to remain in one spot 
forever ? 

Pastorel. I had no idea. . . 

Cabassol. I accept your apologies ... As I told you, 
I was born in the south — I will not go back beyond 
my birth . . . 

Pastorel [aside]. I hope not. 

Cabassol. I will speak but briefly of my infancy . . . 
my first tooth . . . 

Pastorel [appalled]. Suppose we go to the second ? 

Cabassol [irritably]. Excuse me, sir ! If I weary 
you, say so. 

Pastorel. On the contrary, you amuse me. 

Cabassol. What do you mean ? 

Pastorel. I mean, that you do not weary me. 

Cabassol. Then, you should not look as if I did ! 
Where was I ? Oh ! the teeth. Are you a father of 
a family ? 

Pastorel. Alas ! no ! 

Cabassol. You do not realize how happy you are ! 
/ do ! but as you are not a father, I will pass the 
teeth. [Pastorel shows signs of being pleased — Cabas- 
sol sees them.] When I say I will pass 

Pastorel. He is decidedly original, but very dis- 
agreeable. 

Cabassol. I come to my examination in elocution. 
Now you will see my bad luck ! I competed for the 
prize of honor, and I got it. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



25 



Pastorel. I can't say that I see- 



Cabassol. You'll see, you'll see ! They gave me 
the works of Moliere, beautifully bound. 

Pastorel. Well ? 

Cabassol. Wait ! and the works of Masillon. Well, 
sir, I had the works of Masillon in my library ! 
Wasn't that bad luck, eh ? . . . and that's nothing. 
When I was eighteen years old . . . [Stops suddenly, 
and says, pointing to letter on table.'] But put that 
away ! 

Pastorel. What for ? 

Cabassol. It bothers me, I can't go on with my 
story comfortably. It seems to say to me : Aren't you 
ever going to get through with that story ? [Pasto- 
rel puts letter in drawer. Cabassol continues.] When 
I was eighteen, I went up for my examination . . . 

Pastorel. And you were rejected ? 

Cabassol. No ! I passed with the greatest ease. 

Pastorel. But then ? . . . 

Cabassol. Wait ! I passed easily ; but I had only 
four white balls, and my friend Balthazar had five ! 
It's always that way ! At twenty-eight, I was mar- 
ried . . . Oh ! if it was only to do over again ! . . . well, 
I married a lovely woman ! . . . 

Pastorel. Good ! 

Cabassol. I should say a woman whom all the 
world called lovely. I . . . well, you know she was 
my wife ! Besides which, she had two hundred 
thousand francs. 

Pastorel. Well ? 

Cabassol. But wait ! Six months after, Balthazar 



26 THE UNLUCKY STAR. 

married a woman with two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand francs. I ought to have had that, oughtn't I ? 
. . . Well, no — it was for Balthazar ! Always my luck, 
my infernal bad luck ! [Breaks paper-knife while 
gesticulating. ] 

Pastorel. Take care, sir, you have broken my 
paper-knife. 

Cabassol. There's nothing to be surprised at in 
that ; my hand's unlucky. . .everything about me is 
unlucky 

Pastorel. If it belonged to me!... But it belongs 
to the hotel. 

Cabassol. That's all right ; they'll put it in your 
bill . . « Ah ! I forgot the most astonishing proof of 
my bad luck. My wife had some tickets in the grand 
lottery ; one of them came out a prize of ten thou- 
sand francs. 

Pastorel. That was superb. 

Cabassol. You think that superb, do you ? Well, 
listen ! I had 340,600. Now, what do you think 
drew the great prize, 100,000 francs ? No. 340,601 ! 
Yes, sir ! Yes, sir ! it's incredible ! . . .1 ought to be 
used to it ; it has been the same thing since my 
childhood 

Pastorel. Since your first tooth ? 

Cabassol. Yes, since my first tooth. When I take 
an umbrella it is sure to be a fine day ; if I go out 
with my cane it rains in torrents. Now, you never 
heard of such things happening to any one but me — 

Pastorel [with an incredulous air] . Oh ! 

Cabassol. If I run after an omnibus, it's sure to be 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



27 



full ; and I have observed that this has happened 
most frequently on rainy days. It's a fatality ! If 
I were invited to see an eclipse at the Observatory, 
I might just as well stay at home — it would certainly 
be all over before I could get there. 

Pastorel. And they wouldn't do it over again for 
you ! 

Cabassol [thoughtlessly and with rage]. Do it over 
again ! [Seeing his mistake ?\ Ah ! you are laughing 
at me, sir ! If that's the case, I'll say no more ; but 
I'll see you again, sir. [He starts to go out.] 

Pastorel. Sir ! 

Cabassol [aside]. He seems delighted to get rid 
of me. I'll stay. [Aloud.] I have made up my 
mind ; I can't fight with you. With my luck, if you 
were the worst swordsman in the world, you would 
run me through immediately, and I have no wish to 
have my property divided amongst my heirs. I had 
rather live to get my share of other people's estates. 

Pastorel. What a beast ! 

Cabassol. There's my bad luck again ! Balthazar 
had two aunts and two cousins, he buried them all . . . 
They were only forty-five years old. There's luck. 
Now, I have neither uncle nor aunt, nor cousin nor 
. . .Stop though [thinking]. Yes ! I have an uncle in 
America. 

Pastorel. Oh ! oh ! 

Cabassol. Yes, I know people laugh at uncles in 
America. But still there are some, and some of 
these have come back, too. But mine never has 
come back, and never will. No, sir ! he never will. 



28 THE UNLUCKY STAR. 

[ While saying this he gesticulates volently with glass 
weight. ] 

Pastorel. Take care, sir ! You are going to smash 
my paper-weight. 

Cabassol. Never mind ! they'll put it on your bill. 

Pastorel. So you have got an uncle in America. 
Allow me to ask what is the name of your birth- 
place ? 

Cabassol. I live at Andance. 

Pastorel. Where's Andance ? 

Cabassol. Opposite Andancette. 

Pastorel. And where's Andancette ? 

Cabassol. What a question ! Why opposite An- 
dance ... A Frenchman never knows anything about 
geography. 

Pastorel [to himself :] I know as much now as I 
did before. 

Cabassol. But that is my wife's country. I am 
from Martigues, near Marseilles 

Pastorel [aside]. From Martigues — it is he, no 
doubt ! [Aloud. ~\ And what was your uncle's name ? 

Cabassol. Pastorel, the old scoundrel ! old ... he 
was young when he went away ; but that's a long 
time ago, he ought to be old now. There is no 
doubt he was a man of very bad habits, and must 
have squandered all he made in dissipation, unless 
the savages ate him — I hope they did ! . . . But what 
makes you so curious ? Did you ever know him ? 

Pastorel. Yes, I knew the old scoundrel, as you 
call him. What would he say if he heard you ? 

Cabassol [uneasy]. You look like — a very good 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



2 9 



man. I'm sure you would not repeat my idle words. 
Then you know him ? and he was not eaten ? 

Pastorel. No ! nor his money either. 

Cabassol. No ? 

Pastorel. That seems to interest you ? 

Cabassol. To be sure it does ! 

Pastorel. Yes, you seem very much interested. 
Well ! when I saw him he was thinking of coming 
here. 

Cabassol. You don't say so ! 

Pastorel. With a fortune of two hundred thousand 
dollars. 

Cabassol. Two hundred thousand dollars ! Dear 
uncle ! 

Pastorel. He could easily have doubled it, if he 
had chosen. 

Cabassol. And he didn't choose ! Why ? Why 
not? 

Pastorel. He felt so weary and lonely ; he thought 
he would rather see his country and relations again 
before he became enfeebled by age. 

Cabassol. Well ! there's my luck again ! two hun- 
dred thousand dollars that I lose in one stroke ! I 
shall never get over it. 

Pastorel. You'll not lose it. 

Cabassol. How ? 

Pastorel. I say, you'll not lose it, Mr. Cabassol. 

Cabassol. You know my name ? 

Pastorel. Oh ! he often talked to me about you. 
But to lose this money, you would have to be the 
heir of Pastorel. 



30 THE UNLUCKY STAR. 

Cabassol. What nonsense ! I am his only near 
relative. 

Pastorel. But his money is his own, and he can 
leave it 

Cabassol \furious\. He can! . . .Ah, if I thought ! . . . 

Pastore] THnk so, Mr. Marius Cabassol, think 
so . . and let me tell you, that when we art unhappy 
in this world, nine times out of ten, it is our own 
fault — and what we call our bad luck, is our bad 
disposition. 

Cabassol Is that meant for me ? 

Pastorel. A little, my dear nephew. 

Cabassol. What ! you are 

Pastorel. Your uncle ! I am. 

Cabassol [overcome; then says] Well — this time at 
least, you acknowledge that I have had bad luck. 
[Smashes his hat on his head and goes out.] 



SCENE III. 



Pastorel, alone. 

Pastorel. And that is my nephew ! And I have 
come three thousand miles to make his acquain- 
tance ! 



L E L I A. 

&Y OCTAVE GASTINEATJ. 



CHARACTERS. 

Countess Lelia, an Italian. 
Sir Hugh Stanley. 

London — At the residence of Lady Emily Fielding, on the 
night of a ball. Small room, serving for dressing- 
room; dressing table, lamps, chairs, etc. 



SCENE I. 
Lelia. 

Lelia [enters, wrapped in opera cloak, speaking to 
some one behind the scenes 7 ]. You understand, Beppo ? 
Go home for my carriage, and come back with it as 
quickly as you can. [Shutting door, enters.] I won't 
stay any longer at this horrid ball ! I can't imagine 
why Emily will dance on a Friday ! — a fast-day 
— the 13th of the month, too ! These gay people 
never respect anything — not even a superstition ! I 

31 



32 LEU A. 

should have acted on my presentiments ; they never 
deceive me — and I've had a very strong one. About 
a week ago, in my own house at Rome, I was awak- 
ened by Zerlina, who as usual brought me my choco- 
late and my English letters. Amongst them was one 
from dear Lady Emily. Quick, Zerlina, and help me 
dress, I called out. In her eagerness and hurry she 
put my left slipper on my right foot. When I called 
her attention to this evil omen, she insisted that she 
had made no mistake. I opened my dear Emily's 
letter. " Come quickly, my dear child ; I have found 
the hero of your dreams ! Sir Roger Buford, age 
twenty-five, handsome, rich, clever, with beautiful 
teeth and hair, and still preserving the dreams and 
illusions of youth ; he is a real fairy-tale hero, and 
wants but two things in the world— to be attache 
of the legation at Rome, and to marry a charming 
widow. My uncle, the ambassador, has promised 
me his nomination, but you alone ... or I, can give 
Roger his second wish. I love him even to sacri- 
ficing myself — but I warn you not to delay, for 
my devotion is so sublime that it can't last long, and 
if you hesitate for a moment I shall keep your hero 
for myself." I set out at once ; I arrived in London. 
Emily kissed me and said, " Roger is delighted. 
There is to be a dance at my house to-night, where 
you will see him." I entered the ball-room at ten 
o'clock, and asked her to introduce him, but he had 
not yet arrived ; I waited until midnight — and he 
was the only one in London who was not there. 
Such an insult ... to me ! Countess Lelia ! I should 



PLAYS FOP PRIVATE ACTING. 33 

have cried with rage, if I had not known that would 
have delighted my friends. I have just left Emily, 
in spite of her earnest request that I should stay 
longer. I have only this moment discovered, as 
Beppo handed it to me, how frightful my opera- 
cloak is — and last year's fashion ! I am hiding in 
this dressing-room, waiting for my carriage, which I 
did not order until two o'clock ; and to-morrow I shall 
go back to Italy. Ah ! Zerlina, why did you put my 
left slipper on my right foot ? [Seeing Hugh, who 
enters.] There's some one coming in! [Puts hood 
over head, and sits at back of 'stage .] 



SCENE IE 

Lelia — Hugh. 



Hugh [wearing overcoat, speaks to somebody behind 
the scene]. That's right, thank you. [Seeing Lelia, 
bows.] Madame. . . 

Lelia [aside]. Luckily I don't know this young 
man. 

Hughe Some old dowager, I suppose. [Goes to 
toilette table, searching?^ No, not one ! 

Lelia [aside]. What can he be looking for ? 

Hugh. It was very wrong of me, certainly, to have 
shaken hands with Bentley, who has the evil eye, 
and brings misfortune to all who come near him. 

Lelia [aside]. He seems to be worried about 
something. 



34 LELIA. 

Hugh. The left eye, too ! I was particularly anx- 
ious to get to the duchess's early this evening — as I 
hoped to see the ambassador, who, I suppose, must 
have gone by this time — for these functionaries are 
always coming and going in a ball-room, fearing 
the nightly attacks of petitioners ! I left the club 
at ten o'clock, dressed myself, and waited for my 
barber until half-past eleven. Now I know why 
bald men are always punctual ! While Frederick 
was curling my hair, I sent for a carriage, but only 
one could be found — a horrid, old, dirty rattle-trap 
— which covered me with dust. I fortunately dis- 
covered my condition before entering the ball-room. 
[Half opens overcoat \ and looks at clothes .] 



SCENE III. 
Lelia. 



Lelia [aside, laughing]. Ha! ha ! ha ! 

Hugh. I asked for a brush, but none of the ser- 
vants had one. A waiting-maid told me that I 
should find one in the dressing-room, but I didn't see 
any there. [Looking in a drawer.] Ah ! yes ! — Pshaw ! 
a tooth-brush ! [Takes off gloves, and puts overcoat 
on chair — a card falls fro7n pocket of coat.] I can't 
go in looking like a street-sweeper ! Who can I 
speak to ? I must go and look for some one ! 

[Exit. 

Lelia [alone, laughing]. Ha! ha! ha! poor fel- 
low ! Now, if I were wickedly inclined, I should 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG, 35 

go back to the ball-room, expressly to spread this 
funny little incident — How easily people are amused ! 
By a few grains of dust ! This young man is very 
nice, and his dilemma amuses me greatly ! It has 
almost made me forget Sir Roger, who must resemble 
him somewhat, by-the-by. I'll write and ask Emily 
what his name is ! [Seeing card which has fallen 
from Hug his coat pocket^ Why here's a visit- 
ing-card, which has fallen from his coat pocket — 
Now, I'll find out who he is ! [Reading.] " Sir Roger 
Buford." There ! I knew it ! My presentiments 
never deceive me. This, then, was the reason he 
was late — and there was I abusing him ! [Laughs.] 
Emily is right — his hair is beautiful ... I think I 
won't go home ! I'll go back to my dear Emily, 
.who will introduce him to me. . .or. . .I'll stay here 
alone with him. He does not know me, and I must 
make his acquaintance — but how shall I manage to 
detain him here ? [Taking off opera-cloak.'] I wonder 
if I look tolerably well ! Zerlina is not here to tell 
me the truth... but I tell it to myself sometimes. 
[Looking in glass.] Lelia, you are simply bewitching 
this evening. 

SCENE IV. 

Lelia — Hugh. 

Hugh [enters]. I'm dusted at last ! thank heav- 
ens ! [Seeing Lelia, arranging flowers in her hair.] 
Ah ! a lady putting the finishing touches to he* 
towering structure ! Pardon my intrusion . . ■ 



$6 LEU A. 

Lelia. Not at all, sir ! 

Hugh [aside]. Why, the old dowager has gone ! 
[Aloud.] I must have left my gloves here. 

Lelia [seeing gloves and hiding theni]. Ah ! 

Hugh [searching]. Where are they ? Oh ! in my 
overcoat, perhaps ? [Searches.] 

Lelia [aside]. I've got him now, tied hand — un- 
gloved — and foot. 

Hugh [searching]. The effect of Bentley's evil eye 
still on me ! I'm sure I had them when I came up 
stairs. 

Lelia. Are you looking for something ? 

Hugh. Yes, my gloves ! Have you seen them, by 
any chance ? 

Lelia. No ! [smiling] unless I mistook them for 
mine. . . 

Hugh. Oh ! Madame ! [Searching.] I can't pos- 
sibly enter a ball-room with no gloves. 

Lelia. Do as I do, and make up your mind not to 
be bored by this stupid ball. 

Hugh. Are you going home so early ? 

Lelia. It's twelve o'clock. 

Hugh. Cinderella's magic hour ! Have you the 
same reason ? 

Lelia. Who knows ! 

Hugh. Then, if I should find your slipper, allow 
me to take it to you to-morrow ? 

Lelia. A slipper is not as easily lost as a pair of 
gloves ; besides, our maids would not allow us to go 
to a ball with shoes large enough to drop off. In fact, 
Cinderella was only a fairy's god-child, while I 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. ^7 

Hugh. You are her god-mother ? 

Lelia. Perhaps so. 

Hugh. Everything must be possible to you, Madame 
Fairy. 

Lelia. Not everything . . . but all that I wish. 

Hugh. Then, will you find my gloves, please ? 

Lelia. Pshaw ! how can you ask me to do so 
small a favor ? 

Hugh. But I attach great importance to the find- 
ing of my gloves. Give me a proof of your super- 
natural powers. 

Lelia. Why ! I've already given you one. 

Hugh. By dazzling me with your beauty ! 

Lelia. No, by making me invisible to your eyes. 

Hugh. Invisible ! when ? 

Lelia. Just now, when I was sitting there ! You 
did not deign even to look at me. 

Hugh. Why, was that you ? 

Lelia. I took the form of an old woman, which is 
always the way we appear for the first time to mor- 
tals. Don't you recollect Perrault's " Stories " ? 

Hugh. Oh ! yes ! and then the fairy makes a 
gift. 

Lelia. To Prince Charming. 

Hugh. Even when the mortal is neither a prince 
nor charming. 

Lelia. Very well ; now I want to follow out an- 
cient traditions : Prince Charming had three wishes — 

Hugh. That the fairy granted. 

Lelia. Yes, to punish him ; for the fulfilling of 
these wishes is only a deception — there being one 



2,S LELIA. 

thing that Prince Charming always forgets to ask 
for — viz., happiness. 

Hugh. I'd begin with that. 

Lelia. Are you quite sure ; Here is a tablet ! 
[Gives him her ball tablet] Write your three wishes 
upon this ivory leaf. 

Hugh. Immediately ? 

Lelia. No, no ! Reflect well first, and take great 
care not to deceive yourself. 

Hugh. And then will the three wishes be fulfilled ? 

Lelia. Without an instant's delay. I leave you 
now to your reflections. 

Hugh. What ! are you going to disappear ? 

Lelia. I am going back to the ball to find my sis- 
ters, [aside'] and to tell Emily of my folly. 

Hugh. Let me go with you. 

Lelia. No ! I command you to stay where you 
are. 

Hugh. Please ! 

Lelia [pointing to Hugh's hands with her fan\ I 
dare you to follow me. 

Hugh. Oh ! I forgot. 

Lelia. A fairy can never be disobeyed. Good-by 
for the present, beautiful Prince Charming. [Exit 
laughing. ] 

SCENE V. 

Hugh. 

Hugh [following]. Madame. . . [Returning.'] Where 
can I find a pair of gloves ? Every shop is closed. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 39 

Suppose I wait for some polite guest, and borrow 
his. Your gloves or your life ! No, that would be too 
ridiculous, particularly if his hand should not happen 
to be the size of mine. I might go home and get a 
pair, but then she is to come back — at least she prom- 
ised me that she would — and fairies, I believe, al- 
ways keep their promises. I suspect she'll do some- 
thing remarkable. Who is she ? I'm certain that I 
never met her before. A fairy ! Well, why not ? 
All pretty women are fairies, or have been . . . Who 
cares? She is bewitching, clever. . .Well, a little 
too clever perhaps, for she airs her wit at my ex- 
pense. She must be a wicked fairy, for she has put 
me into such a ridiculous position. I leave the club, 
put on a dress- coat and white cravat, and all for 
the sake of staying all the evening in the dressing- 
room like an over-coat or an opera-cloak. Halloa ! 
talking of opera-cloaks, here's hers. [Examining it.'] 
It's not a very stylish one. Ah ! ha ! a pocket ! 
perhaps it would be rather impertinent, but pshaw ! 
with a fairy ! 



SCENE VI. 
Hugh — Lelia. 



Lelia [enters, but seeing Hugh examining her cloak, 
hides behind the curtain. — Aside]. Why, he's search- 
ing my pockets ! 

Hugh [searching in pockei\. A pocket-handker- 
chief ! 



40 LELIA. 

Lelia [aside]. Zerlina's ! 

Hugh. No name on it ! I'll keep it as a remem- 
brance. 

Lelia [aside]. Zerlina will be furious. 

Hugh [still searching] . A note ! If I only dared 

Lelia [anxiously]. Ah ! 

Hugh. No, that would be worse than impertinent. 

Lelia [aside]. That's true ! 

Hugh. So she receives notes, eh ? No doubt it's 
a declaration of love ! Ah, after all, fairies are only- 
women ! Here was I believing, hoping — Halloa ! I 
wonder if I'm getting jealous ! Unfortunately, I've 
got no right to be. I'd give anything in the world 
to know what is in that note, and it would be so 
easy to gratify my curiosity ! Ah ! there are moments 
in our lives, when great moral courage is needed to 
keep us from doing mean things. [Puts back note.] 

Lelia [aside]. Oh ! I'm so glad ! 

Hugh. I must think of something else, and not 
let myself get tempted. Jove ! I forgot my three 
wishes ! This adventure is too amusing to give up. 
Let me see ! what do I wish ? Oh, first my gloves. 
[ Writes on tablet.] 

Lelia [aside]. I'll give them back to him. 

Hugh. They are absolutely indispensable to me — 
for I must see Lady Emily — I have a most delicate 
mission to her. 

Lelia [aside]. A delicate mission ! why does he 
call it a mission ? 

Hugh. No doubt Lady Emily will give me infor- 
mation about the position I am begging f or . . . Oh ! 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



41 



this will be my second wish. [ Writes ■.] I wish to be 
attached to the legation at Rome. 

Lelia [aside]. He never dreams that his wish is 
already realized, 

Hugh. I have no right . . . but fairies are not like 
embassadors — they have no responsibilities. Now 
for my third wish ! That bothers me ! What can I 
ask ? [Reflects.] 

SCENE VII. 
Hugh — Lelia. 

Lelia [showing herself]. Well, beautiful Prince 
Charming, what are you thinking of ? 

Hugh. Being a fairy, you ought to know. 

Lelia. I do know ! 

Hugh. What nonsense ! 

Lelia. You still doubt my power ? Take care, or I 
will punish you. 

Hugh. By disappearing ? 

Lelia. No ! by telling you all that you have been 
doing while I was away. 

Hugh. That's impossible ! 

Lelia. Listen to me ! After I had gone, you won- 
dered who I was. 

Hugh. There's nothing very strange in that. 

Lelia. Then, not being able to solve the question, 
you felt tempted to inquire of my confidante. 

Hugh. Your confidante ? 

Lelia. Yes, my duenna, whom I had changed into 
an opera-cloak. 



42 LELIA 

Hugh. What ! you ? 

Lelia. You see that she still kept her old age, but 
the transformation had taken the power of speech 
from her, and as she could not answer you, you were 
determined to find out whether my pocket-handker- 
chief was more talkative. 

Hugh. How could you know ? 

Lelia. Pocket-handkerchiefs are imprudent. They 
are pocket-alphabets ; so with one stroke of my wand, 
I made my initials disappear, but the handker- 
chief, a wicked magician whom I had condemned to 
keep that form, slipped a note into my pocket out 
of revenge. 

Hugh. I swear to you that I did not read it. 

Lelia. You needn't swear, for I know all about 
it. Your forbearance deserves a reward — so I will 
let you read it. 

Hugh. Oh ! no, no ! 

Lelia. Not when I give you permission ? 

Hugh. But 

Lelia. What's the use of trying to deceive me ? 
You are crazy to know the contents of that note ; so 
read it, I command you — come, obey me. 

Hugh. Since you exact it ... [ Takes note, hesitates 
to open it^\ 

Lelia. You hesitate ; what are you afraid of ? 

Hugh. I'm afraid that this paper is a Pandora's 
box, and that all sorts of troubles will come out 
of it. 

Lelia. Read it, I tell you. 

Hugh. " My dear ". . . Ah ! 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



43 



Lelia. Go on, go on. 

Hugh [reading]. " Our protege has been made at- 
tache to the legation at Rome, and the news will ap- 
pear in the official gazette to-morrow." Ah ! I was 
afraid of some great misfortune ! So this place of 
attache has been given 

Lelia. To you. 

Hugh. What, Madame, to me ? 

Lelia. Was not that one of your wishes ? 

Hugh. Yes, the second; but. . . 

Lelia [giving him gloves] . Here is your first. 

Hugh. My gloves ! How could you have guessed ? 

Lelia. The most trifling things are always anxiously 
desired. 

Hugh. Important things are kept till the last. Well, 
and my third wish ? 

Lelia. I own that that embarrasses me a little. 

Hugh. No wonder, for I had not decided on one ; 
but now I shall no longer hesitate. . . [ Writes.] 

Lelia [aside] . His eyes betray what he is writing. 

Hugh [handing her tablet]. Here it is. 

Lelia {without reading]. Remember that this is the 
last one. 

Hugh. But the one that secures my happiness. 

Lelia. Happiness ; don't you know how it has been 
defined ? " Happiness is like a ball that, while it 
rolls, the child most eagerly pursues ; but once within 
his longing grasp, he flings again far from him." 

Hugh. Yes, the child ; but the man holds it 
fast. 

Lelia. Yes, when he is tired of running. 



44 LELIA, 

Hugh. No ; because he is wiser. Will you grant 
this wish as well as the others ? 

Lelia. The power of fairies has its limits. 

Hugh. And what are those ? 

Lelia. The limits of the impossible ; and what 
you wish is precisely the impossible. 

Hugh. Then you know my wish ? 

Lelia. You ask for my hand in marriage . 

Hugh. And your heart. 

Lelia. Are you sure that fairies have hearts ? 

Hugh. Yes, for they are good. 

Lelia. There are bad fairies, you know. 

Hugh. Then those have bad hearts ; but every 
fairy has a hand . . . 

Lelia. Yes ; but they can't give it to a simple mor- 
tal. 

Hugh. Make me immortal then. 

Lelia. Nothing easier. 

Hugh. What? 

Lelia. All you have to do is to publish a book on 
any subject, so learned that no one can read it. 
Write as preface praises of the oldest or youngest son 
of some one — to whom you must send your book 
and your card, and you will shortly be — — 

Hugh. Member of the Royal Society. 

Lelia. And immortal. 

Hugh. Having always held suicide in great horror, 
I prefer to live ; to live, that I may love you, adore 
you — for I love you ! Yes, I love you with all the 
strength of my soul. I have only known you an 
hour, but that has been long enough to fill my heart 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



45 



with love, and now my entire happiness is in you, 
and you alone. 

Lelia. Ah ! beautiful Prince Charming, you are 
very susceptible ! Straw-fires do not last. 

Hugh. I swear to you that my love will endure 
with my life, and you who have the power to read 
our hearts should believe in our sincerity. 

Lelia. The heart is such a badly written book. 

Hugh. But you have such good eyes ! 

Lelia. A fairy cannot wed a mortal, I tell you, and 
as you refuse immortality 

Hugh. Will you consent to give up yours ? 

Lelia. I will ! on one condition. 

Hugh. What? 

Lelia. You know that the power of fairies rests in 
their wands. [Showing fan.] This is mine. If 
you take it from me, I shall only be a woman. 

Hugh. Then, give it to me. 

Lelia. No, because that would be a voluntary 
abdication, and consequently a thing to regret ; 
whereas what one is forced to renounce 

Hugh. Is just as much regretted. 

Lelia. But is submitted to with resignation. You 
must find some way of getting my sceptre from me. 

Hugh. Well, I can't use violence. 

Lelia. No ! Violence is the right of strength — a 
primitive right. Now- a- days no right is acknowl- 
edged but the 

Hugh. Legitimate. 

Lelia. No ! but that of cleverness. You have 
been attache for an hour, so prove your diplomatic 



46 LELIA. 

powers and do something that will oblige me to offer 
you my fan of my own accord. 

Hugh. In spite of yourself ? 

Lelia. In spite of myself, or nearly so... Every 
stratagem will be allowed you. 

Hugh. But you can guess all my thoughts. 

Lelia. I cannot guess stratagems. 

Hugh. Do you swear it ? 

Lelia. Yes, but I shall fight against them. 

Hugh. Then I will own myself conquered in ad- 
vance. 

Lelia. Is that your diplomacy ? 

Hugh. No. It is frankness. 

Lelia. Well, never mind ; try, and perhaps you 
will think of one. 

Hugh. And if I succeed ? 

Lelia. The charm will be broken and you will com- 
mand. 

Hugh [aside]. What shall I do ? What means 
shall I employ ? [Aloud A Do you know any chil- 
dren's games ? 

Lelia. Indeed I do ! 

Hugh. Well, there's a very simple one, called The 
Pigeon Flies . . . will you play it ? 

Lelia. Willingly ! [Aside.] Poor fellow ! I won- 
der what he is trying to do ! [They sit face to 
face. J 

Hugh. I'll begin — Pigeon Flies. . . [Lelia raises her 
hand.] Cashier flies ... [She hesitates to raise her 
hand.] What ! you hesitate ? 

Lelia. No, no ! [Raises hand.] 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 



47 



Hugh. Fairy flies. [Lelia does not raise hand.] A 
forfeit ! 

Lelia. What ! a forfeit ? 

Hugh. Certainly ! and my gloves ? 

Lelia. Oh ! that's right ! but I have nothing I can 
give you as a forfeit. 

Hugh. Yes, you have ! 

Lelia. No, I haven't. 

Hugh. Where's your fan ? 

Lelia. Oh ! no, take my opera-cloak. 

Hugh. Well then, we'll begin again. 

Lelia. Now it's my turn. Pigeon flies . . . [Hugh 
raises hand.] Heart flies. [He does not raise hand.] Are 
you quite sure that hearts do not fly ? 

Hugh. Mine doesn't, at least, for you've cut its 
wings. 

Lelia. But wings grow again. 

Hugh. Then they can be cut again. 

Lelia. That's true ! — Lover flies. [He does not raise 
hand.] A forfeit, sir ! 

Hugh. What, Madame ? 

Lelia. There's my handkerchief. 

Hugh. But I have nothing for a forfeit. 

Lelia. You have my handkerchief and your gloves. 

Hugh. Here are my gloves. 

Lelia. No ; keep them. Each forfeit must be re- 
deemed. 

Hugh. You must redeem one first. 

Lelia. No, sir, you first, as being the most guilty. 
To redeem your forfeit, I order you to go to the 
ball. 



48 LELIA. 

Hugh. With you ? 

Lelia. No — all alone, and you must go three times 
around the room, without saying a word to any one — 
above all, to Lady Emily — then you must come back 
here. 

Hugh. Ah ! to leave you is too heavy a penalty. 

Lelia. For you perhaps — but for me 

Hugh. . It is pleasing, eh ? 

Lelia. I did not say so. Come, sir, obey ! 

Hugh. What must I do after my three perambula- 
tions in the ball-room ? 

Lelia. You must come and make me redeem my 
forfeit. 

Hugh. But will you really pay the penalty ? 

Lelia. Why, certainly ! 

Hugh. Then, good-by, for a few moments. [Aside. ,] 
Now I shall get her fan. \Exit. 



SCENE VIII. 
Lelia. 



Lelia. Prince Charming is certainly delightful. 
Lady Emily was right — he is the hero of my imagi- 
nation — but just now, when I told this little occur- 
rence to Emily, she got very pale. My praise of the 
baronet seemed disagreeable to her. Poor Emily ! 
can I have arrived too late ? In her place I should 
have kept a treasure like him to myself. Ah ! Emily 
dear, you look back with regret. Well, so much the 
worse for you, my love ! I shall marry the baronet, 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 



49 



and take him to Rome far away from you. I feel 
sure that he loves me, and I . . . I . . . must give him 
my fan, because he never will be able to get it other- 
wise . . . and yet I cannot offer it to him. One don't 
mind being defeated, if the conqueror thinks he has 
struggled for the victory. Well, I know a way, I 
think, of giving him this illusion, and that is, by 
going away. Yes, I'll go home, and when he finds 
out that I have gone, he will ask Lady Emily, and 
tell her how he loves me. Emily will be furious, and 
quarrel with him for wounding her vanity — the most 
lasting sort of a quarrel. Beppo must have come 
back by this time. [Goes to door and calls Beppo. 
Hugh enters \ dressed in servant's hat and coat,] 



SCEXE IX, 
Lelia — Hugh. 



Lelia. Oh ! here he is. Beppo, give me my opera- 
cloak. It's cold out, isn't it ? Well, never mind, we 
shall soon be under our own beautiful Italian sky. 
[Hugh takes opera-cloak^ and as he puts it over her 
shoulders, she gives him her fan to hold that she may get 
her arms through the skrves.] Here, take my fan. 

Hugh [taking off hat and coat]. Thank you, Ma- 
dame ! 

Lelia [recognizing him]. Oh! Mr. Diplomat, you 
have played your game well. 

Hugh. Now, Mrs. Fairy, that I have got your 



50 LELIA. 

power from you, I order the fulfillment of my third 
wish. 

Lelia. I am obliged to obey — so here is my hand, 
Sir Roger. 

Hugh. Sir Roger ! 

Lelia. Are you not Sir Roger Buford '? 

Hugh. Why, no ! I'm his friend, Sir Hugh Stanley. 

Lelia [laughs] . Sir Hugh Stanley ! 

Hugh. Why do you laugh ? 

Lelia. Because last year I refused to marry you 
without knowing you. 

Hugh. Why, then you are ? 

Lelia. Countess Lelia. 

Hugh [laughs]. The Countess Lelia ? 

Lelia. What are you laughing at ? 

Hugh. Because during the negotiations, Roger fell 
in love with Lady Emily, and begged me to tell her 
that 

Lelia. Ah ! your mission ! 

Hugh [taking note from pocket]. Oh ! then, this 
nomination as attache was for him ? 

Lelia [tearing note]. Is it necessary to be an at- 
tache to get to Rome ? 

Hugh. What, do you consent ? 

Lelia. As I have no wand, I'm obliged to obey. 

Hugh. Ah ! Madame, I will give it back to you — 
and your forfeit also — since you are going to re- 
deem it. 

Lelia. Will it please you ? 

Hugh. Can you doubt it ? 

Lelia. Oh ! dear ! 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. ^ 

Hugh. What's the matter ? 

Lelia. To-day is Friday the 13th. 

Hugh. No, it's Saturday the 14th. 

Lelia \joyfully\ Oh! that's true! And Zer- 
lina was right ; she did not put the left slipper on 
the right foot 



THE SERENADE. 

BY COUNT SOLLOHUE, 



CHARACTERS. 

Mercedes, a young Widow* 
J u anita, her Sister. 

The scene represents a Moorish chamber, with win- 
dow at the back. At the window, a large easy- 
chair ; at the sides, two tables and two chairs. 



SCENE L 
JUANITA. 

Juanita [entering from the right. She opens the 
window, then approaches the foot-lights}. It is very 
curious ! To be sure it is the custom here in Gre- 
nada, and very natural, that a young man should give 
a serenade, but this young man has been here sere- 
nading every evening. I feel so nervous and un- 
easy ! What does it mean ? Who is he ? Now he is 
going to begin. I'll take my seat by the window, so 
that I may hear better, and try to see him. [Sits in 
chair by window .] 

52 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 53 

SCENE IL 
Juanita — Mercedes. 

Mercedes {coming in, left]. It is very curious. A 
young man has been singing every evening under 
this window. There is nothing unusual in a sere= 
nade, but every evening ! . . . every evening ! . . . It's a 
declaration. . .a proposal of marriage, perhaps. . .1 
am troubled. I'll take a seat by the window. . .Ah ! 
there's that artful little Juanita already in the chair ! 
Juanita ! what are you doing there ? 

Juanita. Nothing ... I am only trying to get a little 
fresh air . . . and then I am waiting for a messenger 
boy ; you know when he goes by, you say, pst ! pst ! 
and then he comes to you, you give him a note, and 
he takes it ; it is so convenient ! I want tc send a 
note to my confessor, Father Grace. 

Mercedes {aside} . She is deceiving me. I'll be even 
with her. {Aloud.'] What do you mean by opening 
the window, and filling the room with musquitoes ? 
Oh ! good gracious ! I've got one already down my 
back. Look quick, Juanita ! There, there ! {Juan- 
ita rises.] It sets me crazy. There, on the shoulder. 
Higher, lower — Oh ! I feel ill ! . . . {She throws herself 
into Juanita s seat]. Thanks . . . I feel better ! . . , 

Juanita {aside]. And I never saw what she was 
after. Wait a moment. [Aloud.] What's that burn- 
ing ? did you leave your candle near the muslir 
curtains ? . . . I smell smoke ! . . . 

Mercedes. A fire ! I am more afraid of that thai? 



54 



THE SERENADE. 



anything else in the world. [S/ie rises quickly. 
Juanita takes her place, .] Oh ! that is it ! 

Juanita. Yes ! that's it ! now we are quits. 

Mercedes. Listen, Juanita. . .let us be serious. I 
am going to confess the whole truth. My happi- 
ness in life is at stake. 

Juanita. As serious as that, is it ? So much the 
better. Only, I'm not going to budge from this chair. 

Mercedes. It is a long story, a romance, a story of 
love. 

Juanita. Of love ? ... Go on, I'm listening. 

Mercedes. I think I shall marry again. 

Juanita. What ? You are not content with being a 
widow ? 

Mercedes. My feelings carry me away, so that I'm 
always doing foolish things. A young man, whom I 
do not know, has been following me for the las*: 
week. 

Juanita. Why ! it's my own story that you are tell- 
ing me. It is I that the unknown young man has 
been following for the last week. 

Mercedes. Every evening he sings a love song un- 
der my window. 

Juanita. Under my window. 

Mercedes. I am the mistress of the house. It is 
under my window. 

Juanita. I am a young, unmarried lady. I am not 
a widow — so it is under my window. 

Mercedes. Very well ! . . .We'll say our window. It 
doesn't make the slightest difference — the serenade 
is for me. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 55 

Juanita. No. It is for me. 

Mercedes. What an obstinate little thing you are ! 

Juanita. What an obstinate old thing you are ! . . . 
Hush . . . [Prelude in the orchestra^ 

Mercedes. Put out the light — so that they cannot 
see us from outside. [Juanita puts out light.] 

Juanita. And we can both sit in this chair. 

Mercedes. Yes ! yes ! . . . but keep still. 

[Serenade in male voice heard outside. Any suitable 
song will do.] 

Mercedes. Well ! . . . 

Juanita. Well ! . . . 

Mercedes. There is no doubt about that ? 

Juanita. Not the slightest. Do you think I had 
better write to my uncle ? 

Mercedes. I have no one to consult but myself. 
Juanita, you are perfectly ridiculous. 

Juanita. Your vanity has blinded you. 

Mercedes. Well ! if you must know, I have met 
this young man. I have seen him. 

Juanita. Did he speak to you ? 

Mercedes. No . . . but he bowed to me. Yesterday, 
I happened to be strolling about the garden. He 
was at the gate . . . and bowed to me. You don't 
understand these things yet . . . But when a young 
man bows to you, you can soon see if he is in love 
with you. An indifferent man bows coldly, touches 
his hat, and passes on. But a man who loves you ! 
that's quite another thing. His hand trembles. He 
lets his hat fall. He has a troubled, beseeching 



56 THE SERENADE. 

look, as if he had just been guilty of a crime, and 
was asking for pardon. When a man bows in that 
way, my child ! you will find it very difficult to keep 
perfectly cool. 

Juanita. And is that all ? 

Mercedes. Isn't that enough ? 

Juanita. Then I'm ahead of you. He not only 
bowed to me, but spoke to me. 

Mercedes. He spoke to you ? 

Juanita. Yes . . . Isn't he handsome ? 

Mercedes. Not so very . . . And what did he say to 
you ? 

Juanita. He is superb ! Well, I was strolling about 
the garden, too, when I met him ; he took off his 
hat, and said to me, in that beautiful voice of his : 
" Will you be kind enough, young lady, to show me 
where the fire-wood is kept ? It is very cold this 
year." 

Mercedes. And what did you reply ? 

Juanita. I didn't say anything. I was so frightened 
that I ran away. I was afraid he had lost his head. 

Mercedes. That was because he was thinking of 
me. 

Juanita. What ! again ? 

Mercedes. Certainly. 

Juanita. Oh ! this is too much. 

Mercedes. This is intolerable ! A little girl who 
can scarcely spell, imagining a man in love with her ! 

Juanita. A despairing widow, who wishes to drive 
remembrance from her heart, and replace it with 
hope ! 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. ry 

Mercedes. Miss ! 

Juanita. Well ! Madame ? 

Mercedes. I shall write to your uncle to take you 
home. 

Juanita. I intend to go home — and with my hus- 
band, too. 

Mercedes. Xot with that one. 

Juanita. Excuse me ; but just with that one. 

Mercedes. Never. 

Juanita. Immediately. 

Mercedes. Xo . . . Xo . . . Xo . . . 

Juanita. Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . 

Both together. It is impossible to live with such a 
woman. We must separate — to-day — immediately. 
She is wicked, envious, and jealous. I will kill her 
rather than she should belong to him. I am furious ! 
you will see ! [Prelude of the orchestral] Ah ! there, 
he is going to begin again. 

\Maris voice singing. The words of the song re- 
proach some one for not answering. The sisters 
run to the table, take flowers, and throw to him. 
Man s voice continues .] 

Mercedes. He is not satisfied, he continues. 
Juanita. It is very strange. 

Voice [again]. u I am going to fly " 

Woman's Voice [outside] . Wait ! 
Mercedes. Ah ! there's a third. 
Juanita. Xot for her — nor for me. 

[ J Vo man's voice. She sings — then both sing.] 



53 



THE SERENADE. 



The Woman's Voice [loudly]. This is the fifth night 
you've practiced that serenade, Jos6, and you haven't 
got it yet — and call yourself the best tenor in the 
troupe ! 

The Man's Voice. That comes of trying it in this 
wretched little hole of a room, where you have to sit 
at the window to keep your voice from taking the 
roof off ! 

The Woman's Voice. What did you hire it for, then ? 
I told you when we came here a week ago 

The Man's Voice. I hired it, because it was the 
only place where they would take in two professional 
singers ; and even here the landlord told me we 
must keep it quiet, or all the people in the upper flats 
would give him notice. How they must enjoy the 
serenade by this time ! But, here goes again, for to- 
night's the last rehearsal. [Begins the song again, and 
is heard retiring from the window as he sings, until it 
dies away. — The two sisters, who have remained immova- 
ble, in an attitude of grief, during the duet, come down 
the stage laughing at each other. ~\ 

Mercedes. My poor child, I pity you with all my 
heart. Be reasonable ; I have done all I could to 
cure you of your folly. 

Juanita It is you, my poor, dear sister, who have 
need of pity. It is nothing to me. 

Mercedes. Good heavens ! it's the serenade of the 
comic opera, to be given at the theatre next w^eek 

Juanita. I know what I shall do. [She lights candle.'] 
I will write to my uncle that I consent to marry Don 
Gusman Fernandes Alfonso di Fuentis di Calatrava 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 59 

di Biscaya Montefiore Sarragossa San Christovalto, 
my cousin. 

Mercedes. And I shall write to a friend of my late 
husband, the Count Jose of Brazil, that I consent to 
become his wife. [She writes — tuning in the orchestra. ] 
Why, they are going to begin again ! 

Juanita. That doesn't make the slightest differ- 
ence to me, as I am going to marry Don Gusman 
Fernandes Alf — 

Mercedes. That's enough — I know the rest. How 
true it is that you should never reckon without your 
host ! 

[ The singers take up the refrain of the duet again ; the 
sisters conti?iue writing at their separate tables .] 



THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

BY E. LEGOUVE AND P. MERIMEE, 



CHARACTERS. 

Lady Montgomery. 
Julia, her Daughter, 
Mademoiselle Jacques. 
Colonel Sackville. 
Mr. Smith. 

A handsomely furnished parlor in a country house. 



SCENE L 
Lady Montgomery. 



Lady Montgomery [dressed as a 7niddle-aged worn- 
an\. Colonel Sackville returns to-day! I shall see 
him once more ! Ten years ago, when, believing me 
cold and heartless, he in despair joined the French 
army in Africa as a volunteer, he little thought that 
I was almost broken-hearted. But I was not free ! My 
husband, Sir John Montgomery, was still living ... I 
even had the strength to hide my grief from Colonel 
Sackville when we parted ! But now . . . now he will 
find me a widow, free ! [Despairingly.] It is ten 
years later ! Then we were of the same age. Now 

60 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. g x 

... he is still young ! Whilst I . . . Ah ! the age ot 
romance is past for me ! especially now that I am 
about to marry my daughter to his nephew. Well, 
I'll try to forget my past dreams and think of myself 
as a grandmother ! I will conceal any remains of 
youth under this cap ! . . . I will devote myself to 
works of charity, and take up a course of serious 
reading ! W'hen a woman of forty years of age takes 
to good works . . . you may be sure that such devo- 
tion to duty is only the remains of a past love ! [See- 
ing Mr. Smith, Julia, and Mademoiselle, who enter.] 
My daughter ! Mr. Smith ! 



SCENE II. 



Lady Montgomery — Julia — Mademoiselle 
Jacques — Mr. Smith. 

Smith. Here are the latest rules of the institution, 
my lady. 

Lady Montgomery. Very well; sit down, Mr. Smith; 
I am all attention. [ They all sit, Lady M. a?id Mr. 
S. on the left — the others on the right, with their work. ] 

Smith. Rule 75 : " Every boarder in this institute 
who shall be absent twice from morning or evening 
prayers, who is heard singing anything but sacred 
music, or who disobeys any rule of the institute ; who 
writes letters, or receives any from ..." 

Lady Montgomery. Go on to the next, Mr. Smith. 

Smith. H'm . . . h'm. " Or who introduces a novel 
into the house, shall be expelled immediately, and 
declared unworthy of being again admitted." 



(3 2 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

Lady Montgomery. Very good ! particularly the 
last clause. Julia, what do you say to that last rule ? 

Julia. Why ! that I should certainly be sent away, 
mamma ! 

Lady Montgomery. For shame ! Julia. 

Mademoiselle. How, mademoiselle ! what is that I 
hear ? 

Smith. You ! Miss Julia ! 

Julia. I should like to know what harm there is in 
reading novels. I never could see any. 

Lady Montgomery. My daughter, don't talk of 
things you know nothing about. 

Julia. I won't ; but I do know something about 
novels. I've read plenty of them... and hope to 
read a great many more. 

Mademoiselle. In France the jeune fille is not per- 
mit to read the romance, but the English is differ- 
ent. Sir Scott. . . 

Julia. English or French ... I don't care . . . 

Lady Montgomery. Julia ! Mr. Smith, you know 
her too well to believe a word she is saying. 

Smith. I am sure that Miss Julia. . . 

Julia. Mr. Smith ! if you say another word, instead 
of this Arabic gibberish that I am working here, I'll 
embroider in the best of English : " I have read 
all the French and English novels I could get hold 
of," and then I'll sign Julia Montgomery in full. 

Lady Montgomery. Mr. Smith, will you hand me 
my scissors ? thank you. [Aside to him^\ Don't push 
her too tar. 

Smith. A very appropriate record to introduce in 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 63 

a piece of fancy-work. [Beginning to 1-ead again.'] I 
pass over the next rules, about the dress ; you have 
regulated that very well. Gray gown, white veil, 
coarse cotton apron . . . 

Julia. Coarse cotton ! You ought to be ashamed 
of yourselves ! I insist upon muslin aprons, with 
pockets and blue ribbons. 

Lady Montgomery. No, coarse cotton is much the 
best. It is more suitable to the condition of these 
poor creatures. 

Julia. They will look like Cinderellas. Why don't 
you give them glass slippers ? 

Smith. " The constitution is read," for in fact, 
my lady, it is a real constitution, a charter that you 
have given to the institute. The pensioners will be 
introduced in their new costume and marched in 
single file before the manager and lady patronesses. 

Julia. To what air ? I propose " God save the 
Queen." \_S/ie sings the air.] 

Smith. That's a very good idea, Miss Julia : a 
little music would have a very good effect. [To 
Lady Af.] Suppose they sung the beautiful hymn 
you composed, " Seated on a throne of clouds.'' 

Julia. Mamma, you ought to wind up with a lively 
polka. Mr. Smith, I would like to see you dance a 
polka. 

Lady Montgomery. Julia ! 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! 

Lady Montgomery. I am sorry to hear a daughter 
of mine talk in that way. \ To Julia?i Do you wish 
people to think you crazy ? 



6 4 



THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 



Julia. They will let me do whatever I please, if 
they think me crazy ? 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! 

Lady Montgomery. Julia ! I am ashamed of you ! 

Smith. No, Miss Julia, no one will ever say you 
are crazy ; whatever you do, you will always be lovely 
and witty ! 

Julia. Send for the clergyman and witnesses ! Mr. 
Smith has paid me a compliment ! 

Smith. There is nothing extraordinary in that. 

Lady Montgomery, You have a great deal of pa- 
tience, Mr. Smith. But, tell me, have you any news 
of the election yet ? My future son-in-law must be 
very anxious. Poor Louis ! he has set his heart on 
becoming a member of parliament. 

Julia. Poor Louis ? You pity him because he is 
to marry me ! Well, perhaps you're right ! 

Lady Montgomery. Well, he will tell us all about 
it soon, for I expect him to-day with his uncle, who 
has just returned from Africa. 

Smith. Oh, yes ! The one who is nicknamed Don 
Quixotte. 

Julia. Why Don Quixotte ? 

Lady Montgomery. Because on ten different oc- 
casions he showed the most chivalric courage. One 
day he saved his whole regiment, by defending alone 
the entrance to a ravine against the enemy. 

Smith. Like Horatius Codes ! 

Julia. Good gracious ! has he got but one eye ? . . . 

Lady Montgomery. No ! he only received six 
wounds. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 



65 



Julia. Six wounds ! . . . 

Lady Montgomery. Another day, during a retreat, 
a boy of twelve, belonging to the band, and son of 
the vivandiere, fell, struck by a ball. The Colonel, 
hearing him call piteously for his mother, ran to him, 
and brought him out from under a shower of bullets. 

Julia. And the child lived ? 

Lady Montgomery. Yes ; but the Colonel came 
very near dying. 

Julia [quickly\. He was badly wounded ? 

Smith. When the soldiers took his uniform off, 
they found on his breast a medallion with hair in it. 

Lady Montgomery. His mother's hair, probably! . . . 

Julia. I don't believe it was his mother's ! 

Lady Montgomery. Julia ! 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! 

Julia. Here is Louis's coupe. Who is the gentle- 
man with him ? 

Lady Montgomery [with emotion]. Probably his 
uncle ! 

Smith. Mr. Sackville has stopped to talk with the 
farmer. 

Julia. A voter . . . We shan't see him for an hour. 

Smith. Here is the Colonel ! 

Lady Montgomery [troubled]. Already ? [Aside.] 
I haven't the courage to meet him yet ! [To Julia.] 
Julia ! , . .Mademoiselle will receive the Colonel for 
me ... I have some important letters to write for the 
mail which leaves in an hour. [She goes out with 
Mr. S.] 

Mademoiselle. Assevez vous, mademoiselle ! 



C6 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

SCENE III. 
Julia — Mademoiselle — Colonel Sackville. 

Colonel [outside]. In this room ? Thank you, you 
needn't come any farther. [Aside, entering.] How 
my heart beats ! [Looking rowid the room.] She is 
not here. [Approaching Julia and Mademoiselle^] 
Excuse me, ladies. I was told that Lady Montgom- 
ery was here . . . 

Julia. She was here a few moments ago, but ran 
away when you were announced, Colonel 

Colonel. Ran away ! 

Julia. Only to take off her cap in honor of your 
arrival . . . 

Colonel. You think so ? 

Julia. I hope so ! . . . For, just fancy ! she has a 
mania for hiding away her beautiful hair under a 
frightful cap. 

Colonel. What ! she wears caps ! 

Julia. I depend upon you to make her change all 
that sort of thing, Colonel ! 

Colonel. I ! But can I believe my eyes ? that face 
. . .that voice . . . 

Julia. Why, Colonel Sackville! don't you know me ? 

Colonel. Julia ! Miss Julia ! [ With emotion^] See- 
ing and hearing you, has brought me back to ten years 
ago, to the moment . . . 

Julia. When you carried me to the opera in your 
arms . . . 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! for shame ! 

Julia. Don't be alarmed, my dear ; I was only 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 6] 

eight years old. \Introducing the Colonel to Made*. 
moiselle\. Mademoiselle Jacques . . . my governess . . . 
my guardian angel ... a very busy angel, too. 

Colonel [looking at her affectionately^. And this is 
the lovely girl who is going to be my niece ! . . . I shall 
have the right to call you my child . . . and to em- 
brace you ... if my nephew will allow me. 

Julia. Oh, your nephew ! I think the best thing 
about your nephew. . .is his uncle. 

Colonel. Now, don't spoil me ! 

Julia. But you spoiled me awfully when I was a 
little girl ! You frightened everybody but me with 
your long mustaches. . . 

Colonel. And you ! you pulled them. . . 

Julia. That's true ! And you always came with 
your pockets full of sugarplums. . .and dolls. . .how 
pretty I was, and naughty . . . ask Mademoiselle if 
I have improved — she has been trying to reform me. 

Mademoiselle. Oh, Mees Julie ! 

Julia. Do you remember ? it was you who made 
them take me to the opera. . .before I was old enough 
for such dissipation. 

Colonel. Yes, and you went to sleep before it was 
half over... I was obliged to carry you to the 
carriage. 

Julia. You see how precocious I was ! Well, I still 
go to sleep at the opera ; but I have no patient 
carrier now. 

Colonel. Where's my nephew ? 

Julia. Look at this embroidery, Colonel, and ad- 
mire it. Haven't I a great deal of talent ? 



68 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

Colonel {looking at the work], A verse of the Koran 
. . .why, who sent you this design ? 

Julia. My mother had it sent from Algiers. 

Colonel [with emotion]. Really! 

Julia. Just imagine ! for the last two years. . .ever 
since the death of my poor father. . .everything here 
is Arabic. 

Colonel [much moved]. Really ! 

Julia. Yes, Arabic designs, Arabic stuffs, Arabic 
views. I don't know whether all this is in honor of 
you. . .but we live like children of the desert. Isn't 
it so, Mademoiselle ? 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! 

Julia Don't say, Oh, Mees Julie, all the time ! 
[To Colonel?] Well, Colonel, as my mother will not 
make her appearance, let me take her place ; sit 
down here . . . {Interrupting herself.] Do you know 
there is one thing that strikes me as very curious ? 

Colonel. What is that ? 

Julia. You seemed to me a great deal older ten 
years ago than you do now. 

Colonel. Really ! 

Mademoiselle. That is very simple, ma chere ! it is 
because you have ten years more 

Julia. Ha ! ha ! ha ! and he then . . . Mademoi- 
selle. . .Hasn't he ten years more ? 

Mademoiselle. That is true ! 

Julia. I should think so ! {Seriously.] It is very 
strange, but ten years ago I looked upon you as a 
sort of good angel. 

Colonel. And now I am a good devil, eh ? 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 69 

Julia. Yes ; a good devil, whose actions are 
brave and chivalric ! Colonel, have you ever been 
wounded ? 

Colonel. Yes, several times, as almost every one 
else has. 

Julia. And, no doubt, under the most romantic cir- 
cumstances. 

Colonel. On the contrary, I am afraid they were 
very commonplace and prosaic — chance swordcuts 
and balls aimed at no one in particular. . .You feel a 
slight blow on the breast. . .a sensation of cold inside 
. . .that's all ! 

Julia. Ah ! Colonel, how old must one be to join 
the band? 

Colonel. You have passed the age. . .so I needn't 
answer your question. You say that everything 
about this house is Arabic ? 

Julia. Look for yourself ! there is a picture of 
Algiers that mamma bought a few days ago. 

Colonel. She bought a picture of Algiers ! {Look- 
ing at it with emotion^ That little white house with a 
veranda. . .it was there I was taken from the hospi- 
tal. 

Julia. Yes ! when you saved the little trumpet- 
er. . . 

Colonel. You have heard of that ? 

Julia. Yes . . . 

Colonel. I'll show him to you when you come to 
Africa, for I intend to carry you off with your 
mother. 

Julia. I would like nothing better. You must 



yo THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

make the Arabs bring us any quantity of ostrich 
feathers and dates, and perform all their feats of 
horsemanship we have heard so much about. We'll 
take Mr. Smith with us. 

Colonel. Who is Mr. Smith ? 

Julia. Mamma's right hand in all her works of 
charity... he is very sanctimonious. . .1 hate him. 
He is a hypocrite. We will take him with us to 
preach to the Arabs ; your nephew will study up 
the colonization question ; you and I will destroy 
an Arab village. . .and. . .we'll sell Mademoiselle to 
Abd-el-Kader. 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie, for shame ! 

Julia. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 



SCENE IV. 
The same — Mr. Smith. 



Smith [enters]. Colonel ! 

Julia. The Mr. Smith I was telling you about — 

Smith. Lady Montgomery has not quite finished 
her letters . . . She begs you will take a turn in the 
garden, and she will join you there as soon as she 
can. 

Colonel. They must be very important letters... 
very well ! 

Julia. Now, Colonel ! I'll carry you off. . .I'll take 
you out on the frog-pond that we call a lake. You 
will see how well I can manage a boat. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING, *j\ 

Mademoiselle. Mees Julie, madame your mother 
has forbidden you . . . 

Julia. You know very well, Mademoiselle, that 
Mees Julie does whatever madame her mother for* 
bids her to do. Come ! who loves me follows me ! 
[She goes out with Colonel, singing .] 

Mademoiselle. Mees Julie ! Mees Julie ! Oh ! my 
dear!... it is complete madness. [Goes out ; Lady 
Montgomery enters with Smith holding papers* ] 



SCENE V. 

Lady Montgomery — Mr. Smith. 

Lady Montgomery [to Smith], Here is the copy 
almost corrected. 

Smith. I hope you have changed nothing in the 
chapter on widows . . . 

Lady Montgomery. No, not in that . . . but there is 
something here. . .Please leave me a moment, I want 
to finish this passage. [Goes to table to write.] 

Smith. Don't make too many alterations. [Goes 
out.] 

SCENE VI. 

Lady Montgomery, alone. 

Lady Montgomery [throwing papers angrily on 
table]. And what do I care for books ! It is useless 
my reading these pages over and over again. I can- 



J2 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

not see what is written . . . here . . . [Putting her hand 
on her heart.] I only see what is written there ! I am 
so frightened ! I dread this interview ! I am afraid of 
his first look, which will tell me all . . . his love gone 
. . .my hopes ruined. . .he will see me changed. . . 
old . . . what a coward I am ! I sent him word to 
wait for me in the garden. Why?... just that I 
might see him pass by my window : and I have seen 
him. Ten years have told on him, too ! He 
doesn't carry himself as erect ... his eyes have lost 
their brightness. . .but I should like to have seen a 
few more gray hairs on his head ! To be sure I 
have none at all ! . . . [ With determination.] Why 
should I not take every advantage ? my hair is as 
beautiful now as it was twenty years ago... Why 
should I not wear it in the most becoming way ? 
Alas ! he knows my age too well. . .well, the more 
reason why I should call art and dress to my aid. I 
will do it ! and if I am defeated . . . well, so be it . . . 
but at least I will not give up my prospect of happi- 
ness without a struggle. 



SCENE VII 
Lady Montgomery — Julia — Mademoiselle. 

Mademoiselle comes in very much excited. 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! oh ! my dear ! 
oh ! my lady, how she will be angry when she knows 
it ! . . , 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



73 



Lady Montgomery [advancing]. What is the mat- 
ter ? 

Mademoiselle [to Julia , who enters]. "Oh! here 
you are ! Heavens ! if you had been drowned ! . . . 

Julia. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Lady Montgomery. Drowned ! what has happened ? 

Julia. Nothing ! nothing at all, dear mother ! . . . 
I am all right. [Laughing.] But the Colonel was 
drenched ! 

Lady Montgomery. The Colonel ! 

Julia. He looked like Neptune with hanging 
mustache. . . 

Lady Montgomery [with impatience]. But will you 
tell me ?. . . 

Julia. Oh ! it is very simple ! You know, dear 
mamma, you left the Colonel to my tender mercy. . . 
to amuse . . . and I took him out in the boat. 

Lady Montgomery. You know I have forbidden 
you . . . 

Mademoiselle. I did tell her so, my lady ! 

Julia. Oh, I'll bear witness to that ! she did her 
duty ! But in spite of her we went off in the boat 
. . . Oh ! mamma ! it was the most ridiculous sight ! 
On the shore, Mademoiselle frightened to death . . . 
crying like a hen who has hatched a duck, and 
sees it take to the water for the first time. In the 
boat... Mr. Louis Sackville. . .my future husband 
. . . afraid that we would be upset . . . and get his yel- 
low kid gloves wet. . .The Colonel frightened, too. . . 

Lady Montgomery. He ! 

Julia. Yes ! frightened ! but on my account ! . . . 



74 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

calling out to me : Miss Julia ! . . . Miss Julia ! . . . don't 
stand up ! as if I was going to sacrifice my grace- 
ful pose! Then his nephew. .. Miss Julia! Miss 
Julia ! you will upset us ! What cowards men are ! 
...and I amused myself making the boat rock 
from one side to the other to frighten him still 
more ! 

Lady Montgomery. But ! 

Julia. Then, somehow or other, I rocked too hard, 
and the boat leaned to one side... and we should 
have gone entirely over but for the Colonel jump- 
ing into the water ! 

Lady Montgomery. Good heavens ! 

Julia. Then the boat came all right again, and he 
... he looked just like a sea-god ... a Triton . . . Oh, 
it was delightful ! it was mythologic. . .he swam all 
the way to the shore, pushing us before him, where 
we landed safe and sound, thanks to our savior. 

Lady Montgomery. But he ! he ! what became of 
him ? He will be ill ! 

Julia. He ! he don't mind it ! He could hardly be 
persuaded to go to Mr. Smith's room to dry his 
clothes, and I only hope they will not be dry enough 
to put on again to-day. . .We'll lend him the cos- 
tume of Othello we had in the charades. What fun ! 

Lady Montgomery. Julia ! 

Julia. And, if anybody comes . . . we'll tell them 
that he is a Bedouin ! Oh ! I shall go mad if we 
don't dress him up as Othello ! 

Lady Montgomery I declare, Julia, you get more 
ridiculous every day ! Instead of sending him the 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



75 



costume of Othello, I will take him some port wine 
. . .or tea . . . 

Julia. Don't be alarmed, mamma . . . Mr. Smith 
will take good care of him. 

Lady Montgomery. Sometimes I think you have no 
feeling. 

Julia [becoming very serious\. I! dearest mother? 
[Impulsively.] You know how much I love you ! 

Lady Montgomery [tenderly]. Thank you, my 
child. I am always afraid that those who do not 
know you well, will misunderstand you. [Embracing 
her.] There ! I'll go and do what you ought to have 
done. [Going away; aside.] Now to prepare for the 
combat. [Goes out.] 

SCENE VIII. 

Julia — Mademoiselle. 

Made??wiselle takes her work and sits on the left. 

Julia. Africa! the desert ! [Singing.] " Mon bien 
aime d'amour s'enivre." Is that it ? . . . 

Mademoiselle. Very good, Mees Julie. But why 
always the desert ? Now, something of Bellini . . . 

Julia. I love his voice. How well it would sound 
in the desert, under a tent, on a beautiful moonlight 
night. 

Mademoiselle. Yes . . . but Bellini ! 

Julia. Mademoiselle ? 

Mademoiselle. What, Mees Julie ? 

Julia. Have you been in love with any one ? 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! for shame ! , . . 



7 6 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

Julia. Come now, tell me frankly ! I am sure 
those lovely blue eyes of yours have made them- 
selves felt. Confess, you have been in love. 

Mademoiselle. Fi done ! If my lady heard you ! 

Julia. I want to know how one can tell when they 
are in love. 

Mademoiselle. The symptoms of love, your poet 
Shakespeare defines them thus : " his doublet all 
unbraced. . . no hat upon his head ... his stockings 
fouled." 

Julia. Oh ! are you not ashamed, Mademoiselle ? 
As for me, when I shut my eyes, I see large camels 
covered with gold, Arab horses pawing the ground, 
guns firing, piles of cashmere shawls as high as the 
house, beautiful rugs, and a hundred thousand 
swarthy beings crying out . . . 

Mademoiselle. How can you see such strange 
things ? 

Julia. " In the mind's eye, Horatio," as Hamlet 
says. 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! would you really 
go to Algiers ? 

Julia. Indeed I would ! Do you know how to 
tell fortunes ? 

Mademoiselle, No ! 

Julia. I must see a clairvoyant, and find out if I 
shall really go. 

Mademoiselle. You can go with Mr. Louis Sack- 
ville, to see his uncle. 

Julia. I wouldn't travel ten miles with him, if I 
could help it. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



77 



Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! he is such an 
amiable young man ! 

Julia. To his constituents. . .but his wife would 
get very tired of him. 

Mademoiselle. Oh, no ! Mees Julie ! I am sure 
you would not ! 

Julia. No, indeed, for I shall never be his wife. 
But, seriously, Mademoiselle, I am head over ears in 
love . . . Now, if you open your big eyes like that . . . 
and your mouth like a letter-box, I'll do something 
awful. I'll send a declaration of four pages to the 
object of my love. Do you dare me ? 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! is it possible ? 
How ? You do not love Mr. Louis Sackville any 
more ? Who then ? 

Julia. Who then ? who then ? Is it difficult to guess ? 
Are you going to pretend to be stupid, now ? Come 
now, dare to say that the uncle is not a thousand times 
better than the nephew. Say he is not, and see if I 
don't tear your eyes out . . . Just dare to say anything 
bad of the uncle. [She pinches her, and pulls her hair^\ 

Mademosielle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! you hurt me with 
your ongles. 

Julia. Very good ! very good ! Mademoiselle has 
made a pun ! ... It's too much for a French woman 
of so tender an age . . . But, first I want to know what 
you can find to say against my choice . . . 

Mademoiselle. First, you are engaged. 

Julia. Secondly, I break it off. 

Mademoiselle. And then, he has forty-five years, 
at least. 



7 8 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

Julia. He doesn't look more than forty-four and a 
half. I like them like that. He has a beautiful 
mustache, which I will make him put in curl-papers, 
and his hair is very black still . . . fast color. 

Mademoiselle. But soon it will become gray. 

Julia. Soon ! Soon never comes. I don't know 
how long it will be before he turns gray — perhaps 
next year, perhaps this ; what do I care ? He will go 
to Algiers. He will be made general . . . Grand trium- 
phal entry ... I shall be presented with embroidered 
scarfs, Arab horses, bracelets ; and you ... I will 
marry you to a sheik. 

Mademoiselle. A sheik ! 

Julia. Yes, a sheik, and if you say a word, to a 
dervish ! [Giving her a shawl?[ There, make a 
turban of that, and put it on my head. [ While 
Mademoiselle puts turban on.] Then he will be obliged 
to join his brigade . . . What a heart-rending parting ! 
I shall await the bulletins with anxious impatience, 
as Mr. Smith would say. You will read the Times. 
I will recline on a divan, in a little salon lined with 
flowered satin, with verses of the Koran round the 
border. I won't receive any bores. My mother will 
have to leave Mr. Smith at the door, with her um- 
brella... You must arrange my turban better than 
that — put it more on one side — coquettishly. 

Mademoiselle. And when a bulletin comes, and 
you read : " The general has been killed ! " 

Julia. Bah ! No such bulletin would come ! This 
turban is really very becoming. Does one ever be- 
come a widow at twenty ? But look at me and tell me 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



79 



if I was not born to be the wife of a pasha or an 
Algerian general ! I think I shall always wear turbans. 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! Do take that off, 
it is the hour when Mr. Louis Sackville comes. 

Julia. And if the uncle should come on his grand 
war-horse ! I would jump on behind, and gallop off 
with him — to the desert ! to the desert ! I hear 
some one coming. 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! Mees Julie ! It is himself ! 
For heaven's sake, take off that turban ! Mon Dieu, 
what will he think ! [T/ie Colonel enters .] 



SCENE IX. 

The same — Colonel Sackville. 

Julia, [going to him, and saluting him comically.] 
Salamalic ! 

Colonel. Alei'koun, Salam ! You are lovely in 
this costume. Your mother is not here ? 

Julia. No. 

Colonel. She is like Providence, inscrutable in 
her ways, and never seen. She sent enough to Mr. 
Smith's room to save ten drowned men, and when I 
look for her. . .But where is she ? 

Julia. She is in her room with Mr. Smith, correct- 
ing proof-sheets. You must be resigned, you are 
under my charge. 

Colonel. I am resigned to my fate, as I came es- 
pecially to see you and talk to you. But what were 
you doing ? Acting charades with Mademoiselle ? 



80 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

Julia. Ask her what we were doing — and say- 
ing. 

Mademoiselle. For shame ! 

Colonel. I am afraid I disturbed you. But I must 
ask you to give me five minutes, for I have some- 
thing very particular to say to you. 

Julia. You look as if you had something weighing 
on your mind. Now, Mademoiselle, will you be 
kind enough to take your work over there . . . Take 
a seat, great mogul. 

Colonel. Your joyous spirits make me regret my 
past youth. But tell me, did you see Louis yester- 
day ? 

Julia. Yesterday ? 

Colonel. What ! you don't remember ? 

Julia. Oh ! yes ! I recollect now . . . He was on 
his bay horse with crooked ears. 

Colonel. What did you talk about ? 

Julia. I forget . . . Oh ! about the coming election, 
I think. 

Colonel. He is wrong ; he ought to keep all that 
sort of thing for his constituents ; but I was afraid 
you had quarreled. 

Julia. I ! quarrel with him ! I never could with 
one . . . who ... I could quarrel with you, perhaps. 

Colonel. I hope never to give you cause. But 
listen, my dear child. You will allow me to call 
you child ? We men accuse women of being sensi- 
tive and exacting, whereas we are a thousand 
times more so. No greater misfortune can happen 
to a man than to find that the woman to whom he 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 8 1 

has given his entire love is untrue to him. You 
treat my poor Louis badly. 

Julia. How so ! 

Colonel. I can see myself. . .You have not— 

Julia. What have I not ? 

Colonel. It is not very easy to say . . . But you will 
excuse one who has lived so long amongst savages. 
You don't appear to love him as you should love 
the man to whom you are engaged. 

Julia. Does he think that I am wanting in... 
affection ? 

Colonel. He is in despair, and irritates himself, in- 
stead of trying to win your affection . . . now, dear Julia 
. . . tell me frankly ... at my age you can say what 
you please to me. . .although old, I love youth. . . If 
you do not love Louis ... it must be for one of two 
reasons — either you love no one yet ... I have no 
doubt that is the case. . .you are so young. . .and 
your education — 

Julia. Yes ! at school they forbid us falling in 
love, and biting our nails. 

Colonel. You are not speaking frankly. . .Look at 
me ; I am something of a physiognomist ... I see 
something serious behind that laugh which frightens 
me . . .after all, our feelings are not under our control 
. . . You think, perhaps, that you have found in some 
one else what is wanting in Louis . . . that life and 
enthusiasm which youth believes the proofs of a true 
love. . . [She nods affirmatively.] I was afraid of it ! 
Listen to me. You are very young, very lovely . . . 
without experience . . . good reasons for choosing 



g 2 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

badly ; but you have a good mother who loves you, 
who lives only for you ! 

Julia. She is my best friend. 

Colonel. You should consult her. 

Julia. But she is busy with her proof. 

Colonel. So you love some one. . .And it is not 
my poor Louis whom — But I won't say anything 
more to you about him ; I will think only of you now 
. . . Are you sure that he whom you love is worthy of 
you ? 

Julia. Very sure ! 

Colonel. One always believes what one most 
wishes. Look in that mirror... at that lovely face 
. . . Ask yourself if so much beauty, if that noble 
little heart, ought to belong to a coxcomb ? 

Julia No, never ! 

Colonel. You reassure me. I believe he is worthy 
of you . . . Does your mother know that you love 
him ? 

Julia. No ! she is revising — 

Colonel. Oh! stop this joking... We are talking 
of the happiness or misery of your whole life . . . My 
dear child, I tremble when I think that a man can 
bewitch a poor young girl because he dances well. 

Julia. Oh !* as for that, I am sure he dances horri- 
bly. 

Colonel. So much the better, if you judge him 
from more serious qualities ; but why not speak to 
your mother ? 

Julia. To tell you the truth, I don't know whether 
he ever thinks about me. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



83 



Colonel. If he thinks about you ? . . . O ! Julia ! 
Julia ! Here is a romance ! You love an unknown 
man who has saved you from some danger by the 
light of the moon. 

Julia. Perhaps ! 

Colonel. Nonsense, my child, utter nonsense ! 
The dance was a great deal better. . .What ! he does 
not know that you love him ? He's a fool ! 

Julia. Yes... or he does not do himself jus- 
tice. 

Colonel. You are crazy, my poor child ; but now 
you are sad, you change color ; is that a tear I see 
in those lovely eyes ? Ah ! youth ! youth ! your 
rashness brings you many cares and regrets. Well, 
this handsome unknown ? 

Mademoiselle. Mees Julie, my lady must have 
finished ; I will tell her the Colonel is here. 

Julia. No, I will go and tell her myself.. .Tell 
me, Colonel : in Algiers . . . the women are veiled, so 
the men might as well be blind . . . What does a 
woman do, w T hen she wants to let a man know she 
is in love with him ? 

Colonel. Why, as you may suppose, I have had no 
experience. 

Julia. But others are more fortunate perhaps . . . 
or more conceited. 

Colonel. You put me in mind of a very curious 
incident. As I entered Tlemcen I had at my side 
an adjutant, a brave soldier and very handsome. In 
the main street a woman, covered with a veil, caught 
the bridle of his horse, and threw a bouquet in the 



84 THE FLOWER OE TLEMCEN. 

folds of his burnous . . . [ Julia throws a flower at him 
a?id runs out hiding her face.} 

Colonel. Ah! [To Mademoiselle.] Mademoiselle, 
will you tell Lady Montgomery that I am obliged 
to return to Africa immediately ? 

[He goes out back, turning to the right. Mr. Smith 
appears on left and follows him with his eyes as he dis- 
appears.] 

SCENE X. 
Mademoiselle — Mr. Smith. 

Mademoiselle [in front, looking very much excited]. 
Oh ! ciel ! I have jamais. . . 

Smith. What is the matter with the Colonel, that 
he rushes off in that way, without seeing anybody ? 

Mademoiselle. Oh! Meester Smeeth...Si vous 
... if you . . . Je ne sais pas . . . When I think . . . O ! 
mon Dieu ! a young girl ! 

Smith. Why ! good heavens ! what is the matter 
with you ? You speak English and French in the 
most promiscuous manner . . . 

Mademoiselle. Oh ! silence . . . My lady ! 



SCENE XI. 

The same — Lady Montgomery. 

[Lady Montgomery enters from the side opposite to 
where Julia went out. She is elega?itly dressed, and 
her hair arra?iged with ribbons.] 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



85 



Lady Montgomery. My dear Mr. Smith, will you 
find the Colonel, and tell him I wish to speak with 
him, before he goes. 

Smith. With pleasure, my lady. [Goes out.] 

Lady Montgomery. Mademoiselle, will you send 
Julia to me ? 

Mademoiselle. Yes, my lady. \She goes out.] 



SCENE XII. 

Lady Montgomery, alone. 

Lady Montgomery [ picks up bouquet thrown by Ju- 
lia ; after a moment of silence] . Does she love him ? 
or was it simply fun on the part of this giddy girl ? 
All young girls are such children ! And she is par- 
ticularly so ! Has her heart spoken ? There are so 
many mysteries in a young girl's heart. To throw 
him a flower in response to his story. . .and he ! he 
did not even pick it up . . . he fled . . . fled ! Why ? 
Does he fly from her. . . Or is it I that he is afraid 
of ? A thousand feelings struggle within me ! Jeal- 
ousy . . .Yes, I am jealous of her ! Joy ! I am hap- 
py because he disdained this flower ! A mother's 
grief ! For, if my child suffers, there can be no pos- 
sible happiness for me ! Does he love me still ? 
Does she love him ? If so, I can't give her a step- 
father with whom she is in love. Oh ! I must get 
rid of this anxiety ! Here she is ! ... I will question 
her. 



86 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

SCENE XIII. 

Lady Montgomery — Julia. 

Julia [coming in joyfully\. You sent for me, mam- 
ma ! [Seeing her dress.] Oh ! how pretty you are ! 

Lady Montgomery. You think so ? 

Julia. Now, this is the way I like to see you ! You 
look ten years younger ! . . . Oh ! how beautiful your 
hair is ! 

Lady Montgomery. Really ? 

Julia. If you go on this way . . . you will be more 
beautiful than any of us ... I forbid you . . .[Seeing 
her flower in her mothers hand, aside, troubled.]. My 
flower ! 

Lady Montgomery. What is the matter ? You seem 
troubled . . . 

Julia. I? 

Lady Montgomery. Yes . . . one would think that 
the sight of this flower . . . 

Julia. Of that flower ! 

Lady Montgomery. Yes ! isn't it lovely ! 

Julia. Certainly . . . very pretty ! . . . Isn't the Colo- 
nel here ? 

Lady Montgomery. When I came in ? . . . He — 

Julia. Did he speak to you ? 

Lady Montgomery. Speak ... of what ? 

Julia. Of anything ... of his nephew . . . perhaps it 
was he who gave you that flower ? 

Lady Montgomery. No ! I found it there ... on 
the floor. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 8/ 

Julia. On the floor ! . . . [Aside.] He would not 
even pick it up ! 

Lady Montgomery. What is the matter with you ? 
This flower seems to interest you very much. 

Julia [bursting out laughing\. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
They are all alike ! . . . men are such coxcombs ! 

Lady Montgomery. What are you talking about ? 

Julia. I see, you know it all ! The Colonel has 
told you everything ; and, by your serious manner 
and severe expression, I know you believe that your 
daughter — {laughing again] ... And he never un- 
derstood . . . 

Lady Montgomery. Understood what ? 

Julia. That I was joking. . .that I was acting an 
Algerian play. 

Lady Montgomery. But — 

Julia [laughing louder]. And he took my flower 
for a declaration ? . . . ha ! ha ! I wish ... ha ! ha ! 
ha! [Suddenly stops laughing.] Well, it's true... I 
never could tell a lie ... I threw the flower at him, be- 
cause I love him. 

Lady Montgomery. You love him ? 

Julia. Yes ! 

Lady Montgomery. At his age ! 

Julia. Heroes have no age ! 

Lady Montgomery. A man you never knew be- 
fore to-day ! 

Julia. There are men you can know in an hour, 
as there are others whom it takes years to know. 

Lady Montgomery. This is folly ! 

Julia. It may be folly ! I know I am wild and 



33 THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

capricious. . .but my heart is brave and true — I take 
that from you. [Lady M. makes a sudden movement.] 
This language from me astonishes you ... I am aston- 
ished myself. The words I speak seem to come in- 
voluntarily from my heart. . .it is my heart itself that 
speaks. Yes, you will find in this wild, capricious 
girl a woman ! 

Lady Montgomery. A woman who pretends to love 
a man she does not know. 

Julia. I have known him for the last three years — 
three years I have waited for him. 

Lady Montgomery, You have waited for him ! 

Julia. Yes ! I have foreseen. . .divined. . .the dis- 
gust I have felt for every young man who has paid 
me any attention shows it... If you knew how I 
detest the sight of these fops, with little waxed 
mustaches, with hands in such pretty gloves, and 
little hearts. . .Your Mr. Smith is a hypocrite ! Mr. 
Louis Sackville is a coward ! You were not there just 
now in the boat ! If you had seen him. . .pale and 
trembling. . .clinging ridiculously to the sides of the 
boat, frightened by a girl, not being ashamed to show 
his cowardice before the woman that he loved! But 
he i he ! there is a heart ! I don't speak of his cour- 
age ... it was a natural act on his part to throw him- 
self into the water to save a woman ! . . . but with 
w T hat presence of mind he jumped from the boat to 
relieve it ! With what skill and grace he pushed it 
to the shore ! And just now, with what affection 
he spoke to me of his nephew ! How tender and 
lovingly he spoke — he, so accustomed to command 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



89 



... I could almost see the tears in his eyes ... I am 
sure he has loved ! what I call loving ! I am even 
sure he has suffered. Yes ! I could see that he had 
a hidden sorrow, some sad remembrance which draws 
me still more to him \tenderly\. Oh ! to console a 
great heart like his ! And I think I could. I see 
clearly within me. I must be proud of the man 
whose name I bear ! I must never be able to utter 
his name but with respect. In my husband's ab- 
sence I must be able to think of the noble deeds 
he has performed ! When I am out with him I 
must see all eyes follow me with envy. I am proud ! 
I cannot marry any but a man superior to all others 
... by what right or title I do not know . . . but I 
cannot love any one below this standard. 

Lady Montgomery. But if he does not love you ? 

Julia. That is impossible. 

Lady Montgomery. And this flower ? — which he 
did not even pick up. 

Julia. This flower ? My flower ! Oh ! I am mise- 
rable ! . . . I had forgotten \with deteri7iinatio)i\ . "Well, 
I must know ! This neglected flower may not mean 
anything ... a coxcomb would have boasted of it, a 
fool would have laughed over it, an honest man 
might pretend not to understand it. I am younger 
than he, richer . . . this seeming contempt may be 
only delicacy .. .but contempt or reserve, I must 
know ! . . . I want you to offer him my hand for me 
. . . and if he refuses it, I know what remains for me 
to do ! . . . [Lady M. rings.] What are you doing ? 
\M r aid enters .] 



go THE FLOWER OF TLEMCEN. 

Lady Montgomery. Bring me my shawl and my 
cap. You will find them in that room. 

Julia. Oh, mamma, are you going to put on that 
horrid cap ? 

Lady Montgomery. Yes ! I feel chilled through. 
We try in vain to escape from age. [Maid enters ; 
Lady M. puts on cap and wraps shawl around her. 
Colonel enters.] 



SCENE XIV. 
The same — Colonel Sackville. 

Julia [to her mother]. He ! 

Lady Montgomery. Thank you, Colonel, for re- 
turning. [Colonel, seeing her, makes a gesture of sur- 
prised] 

Lady Montgomery. Ah ! I see you are not changed 
. . . the same frankness. 

Colonel. How, my lady ? 

Lady Montgomery. Yes ! for in meeting me again 
. . .you were not able to restrain a gesture, . „a look 
... of surprise ... at finding me so . . . changed, 

Colonel. I ! 

Lady Montgomery [showing her daughter], But 
here I am ... at twenty years of age ... as you re- 
member me. She is like me ... is she not ? 

Colonel. Very. 

Lady Montgomery [offering him the flower] . Prove 
it to me ... by accepting this flower from my hand. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. g l 

Colonel. Certainly, my lady. 

Lady Montgomery. Thank you. 

Julia [throwing herself on her mother's hand\ 
Mother ! 

Lady Montgomery. Poor child ! what joy ! [Aside. \ 
Well, it is not as hard as I thought it would be. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

BY ANDRE THEURIE'i. 



CHARACTERS. 

M. Gilbert, age 60. 

Roger, age 30. 

AliiNE des Aulnois, cousin of M. Gilbert \ age 18. 

Susan, old Nurse of Aline s, age 50. 

Scene — A country house. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

A study on the ground-floor of a house belonging to 
Aline s mother. At the back of the stage a door leading 
towards the court-yard,. Front of stage, to the left, a 
table with books, and an arm-chair, a screen on one side 
of them, back of them, a door leading to the rest of the 
house. Front of stage, to the right, a window looking on 
the garden, near the window a sofa and work-table, back 
of the??i a long window opening on the garden. Old 
furniture, old stuffs, old china, suggesting the last 
century. 

92 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. ^3 



SCENE L 

Aline. 

Aline [sitting on the sofa, with embroidery ; urs ine 
work fall, and sits pensive — sings.] 

Song — Robin Adair, 

" What's this dull town to me ? " 
etc. etc. etc. 

Susan [the door at the bottom of the stage opens, and 
enter Susan, laden with parcels']. Here I am ! How 
are you, my child ? 

Aline [surprised]. Why! is it you? We didn't 
expect you till this afternoon. 

Susan. That's true ; but I was so homesick up 
there ; in the daytime I kept thinking about the old 
house, and the orchard, and the cows ; and at night 
I dreamed of them ; I saw the cat at the window, 
and the pigeons on the roof, and they looked so 
lonely — poor dear things — it made me downright 
melancholy. My sorrows ! I couldn't stand it ; so 
I hopped off to the railroad — found a carryall at 
the station — and here I am. [Puts down her parcels, 
and sits dozen.] How nice it is to ge; Lack ! Ah ! 
my child, as the old song says, " There's no place 
like heme." 

Aline. How is mamma ? 

Susan. Very well. Ycu should just see her run- 
ning about Paris, from morning till night, bargaining 
with the shopkeepers, arguing with the lawyers, visit- 



94 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

ing her friends. We have had a busy time, I can 
tell you ? 

Aline. And Paris ? Is it very delightful, Susan ? 

Susan. H'm ! Yes — and no. I expected some- 
thing better. I thought the streets would be silver, 
the houses gold, the people splendid, and everything 
shiny and beautiful — but my gracious ! the mud 
was worse than ours, the houses black and dirty, the 
people haggard and pale, as if they were getting a 
fever ! and, worst of all, a smoky sun ! Ah ! give me 
our own bright sun at home ! 

Aline [giving a weary sigfi]. It is easy to talk! 
but the sun doesn't shine here ; the house is like a 
tomb — yes, a tomb; and they may bury me in it, if I 
stay here much longer. I am dying of dullness. 

Susan. Oh ! my darling ! how can you say such 
things ! At your age. Only eighteen ! 

Aline. What good do I get out of my youth ! 
What's this dull town to me ? The people walk the 
grass-grown streets as if they were asleep. Every 
morning I wake with a vague hope that something 
will happen ; something to break the solitude — the 
monotony — something — I don't know what ! I spring 
up, saying to myself, perhaps it will be to-day, to- 
day ! to-day ! ! — but no — no — nothing happens — 
nothing comes. 

Susan {smiling with a knowing took]. Something 
will happen. 

Aline. I don't believe it. I'm weary of waiting. 
Ah ! Paris ! Paris ! how I wish I were there ! 

Susan. Patience, my child ; you will be there sooner 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



95 



than you thfink for. Listen : your mother has a plan 
to sell this house, and live in Paris. 

Aline [_joyous, but incredulous]. What, really ? — 
truly ? Who told you ? 

Susan. No one. But I've a quick pair of ears, and 
when I found they were hiding something from me, 
I just listened at the door, and heard all. Your 
mamma will be here to-morrow. She wants to talk 
it over with you and M. Gilbert. 

Aline. Poor cousin Gilbert ! I wonder how he 
will like it. 

Susan. Not at all, poor dear man ! He is not like 
you, he loves the old homestead. Remember, child, 
he has lived here fifty years. He came with your 
grandfather, when your mother was a little girl, and 
from that day to this he has not slept out of his own 
room. When your mamma married and left home, 
M. Gilbert staid on in the old house ; when she re- 
turned — a widow, with a dear little daughter, (that's 
you,) she found her old cousin waiting for her on the 
steps of the portico — faithful at his post like the fam- 
ily watch-dog ! Poor man, he hoped to die here. It 
will break his heart to leave the old home. 

Aline. Nonsense. We will take him with us. We 
will make a bright, new home for him. Presently, 
when he comes in, / // talk him into it. 

Susan. You will have hard work to do that. At 
his age, my child, old men are like cats — they love 
their garret, and they are not happy elsewhere. But 
try — try by all means — though I'm afraid you won't 
succeed. There he is now, coming in from his daily 



g6 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

walk in the orchard, with his hands behind his back, 
and his face glowing with peace and contentment. 
Ah ! my poor, dear man ! you don't know what's 
before you ! . . . While you are talking with him, 
Aline, I will go and put things to rights upstairs. 
[Picks up her parcels and exit, left.] 



SCENE II. 
Aline. 



Aline [joyfully]. To get away from here! to live 
in Paris ! the mere thought of it makes me as lively 
as a cricket, as light as a bird. [Foils up her work, 
and sings some gay song — anything — -four lines with a 
refrain.] 

[M. Gilbert enters from the garden, and stands list- 
ening?^ 



SCENE III. 
Aline — M. Gilbert. 



M. Gilbert. Bravo, my darling ! That's a pretty 
song ! I like your gay voice better than the doleful 
looks I saw this morning. Isn't it a beautiful even- 
ing, and are we not happy to live here and enjoy it ? 
I have been watching the old house, as I stood there, 
under the apple trees ; the setting sun brought out 
the noble lines of the facade, and the pointed tower, 



Plays for private acting. 



97 



and my mind went back over the years — the many 
years — when I have watched it at the same hour : 
it seemed to me, that from every glowing window, 
my youth smiled upon me with all its hopes — its pas- 
sions — its delights. 

Aline [tfjzite]. Poor cousin . How shall I tell 
him the news ? [Aloud.] You love the old house very 
much, cousin Gilbert ? 

M. Gilbert. Do I love it ! For fifty years it has 
held my heart, my dreams, my aspirations. My life 
itself is here — andyou ask me if I love in It seems as 
though I had created it in my own image ; as if it 
were a part of my being, and I a part of its very 
walls. 

Aline. So that if you had to leave it 

M. Gilbert [interrupting]. To leave it ! ! How 
could you think it ! Could I leave so dear a spot, 
made doubly dear by the presence of an old friend 
like your mother, and a darling child like you ? 

Aline [persisting]. But if mamma took a fancy to 
live in a city, and were to sell this house ? 

M. Gilbert [annoyed]. Oh ! come, come, this is 
nonsense. My darling, don't play these cruel jokes, 
they make me shudder. See [holding out his hand\ 
you have only said two or three idle words, and yet I 
tremble ! Think, therefore, how I should feel if 
this were true. . .eh ! What ?. . . why do you look 
at me so ?. . .so grieved ?. . .so mysterious ? . . . Oh ! 
it is all a joke — is it not ? [Aline shahs her head.] 
Xo ! The house is to be sold ? [Aline nods.] Xo ! 
no ! it is impossible ! How did you hear it ? 



g$ THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

Aline. Susan came home just now. She heard it 
all. We are to live in Paris. 

M. Gilbert [horror-struck] . And I ? 

Aline. You, dear cousin ? oh, that's all settled, 
you'll live with us. We will make you a charming 
little nest, very still and quiet, and furnished just to 
your fancy. 

M. Gilbert [bitterly]. Nests are not built in old 
age. This was my nest, my shelter, my home ! If 
I am torn from it I'll find a hole to hide in. 

Aline [caressingly]. You feel so because you have 
never left this house, even for a day. But you'll 
change your mind. Oh ! there is nothing so de- 
lightful as novelty. 

M. Gilbert. Ah J you don't understand. . . 

Aline [interrupting hint with a hiss, and putting her 
hand over his mouth]. Hush ! hush ! Think of Paris 
and its marvels. Do you count them nothing? 
[Coaxing \ Come, it's all settled, dear old cousin, 
you will go with us ? 

M. Gilbert. No, no, a thousand times no ! . . . Oh 
it can't be settled yet ! I'll write to your mother. 
She will listen to reason — she will give up this foolish 
sale — this insane whim of a spoiled child 

Aline [pouting]. Ah, now you are cross. I am sorry 
I told you anything about it. Keep calm. I'll tell 
mamma myself that she must give up her charming 
prospects . . . I'll try to bear this dreadful prison-life 
. . .Ah, me ! I'll try— that's all. 

M. Gilbert. My dear child, listen to me. 

Aline. No, no ; what's the use ? I can resign my- 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



99 



self to die of dullness . . . Good by, cousin. [Turns 
away her head and exit, left.] 



SCENE IV, 
M. Gilbert, alone. 



M. Gilbert. Aline ! . . . she won't hear me ! But 
my arguments — an old man's wishes — what power 
have they to influence her ? Oh, youth ! youth ! 
smiling, yet cruel ! — which knows no anguish and can 
pity none — I am powerless against you. Her mother 
will yield to these girlish fancies — and // — [Si/s down 
at left, and looks sadly about him .] Old home ! I shall 
see you pass into the hands of strangers. Dear 
walls ! you shall hold me no longer. Friends, friends, 
we are to part ! — but — I will not go far. I will keep 
you within the line of my horizon. I know an attic 
room near by from whence I could see you still. I 
will live there — and watch, day after day, for the 
smoke of the old chimneys in winter — and for the 
glowing windows I loved so well in the summer eve- 
nings. Yes ! yes ! — but all my tender memories in 
every nook and corner within these walls — must I 
part from them? And the sweet joy of living with 
two angels, who have given to the old house and 
the old belongings the charm of freshness and 
grace ! All — all is lost — lost forever. [Puts his hands 
before his eyes.] What ! a tear ! . . .When it is all over 
and I am alone — in my garret — what will remain to 



Ufa 



IOO THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

me — but tears. [Rises ?\ Oh ! I am weak — this fright- 
ful news, flung into my peaceful life, has convulsed 
me. I must take courage. [ Walks about in agitation.] 
Come, this is not courage ! I will be strong. I will 
be hopeful. What the devil! — things are not hopeless 
— they shan't be hopeless. After all, it is only the 
tattle of a servant. Susan is such a gossip. Who 
knows ! I dare say she meant to tease Aline, and 
the silly child believed her — it is so easy to believe 
what the heart wishes ! Bah ! the whole thing is an 
invention. How could I be so easily taken in ? [A 
rap at the door.] Hey ! some one knocked. [Opens 
the door.] Come in. 



SCENE V. 
M. Gilbert— Roger, in traveling dress. 

Roger [rather cavalierly]. Beg pardon. Is Ma- 
dame des Aulnois at home ? 

M. Gilbert [surprised]. She will not be at home 
for several days — but I am her cousin, and if I 

Roger [interrupting] . I believe this house is for 
sale ? 

M. Gilbert [aside — shocked] . 7/ was true ! 

Roger. I should like to go over it. 

M. Gilbert [aside]. Already ! [Aloud.] Am I in- 
discreet in asking a few questions ? 

Roger. Go on, sir. 

M. Gilbert. First, who informed you so quickly of 
the intentions of the owner ? 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. I0I 

Roger. The lawyer of Madame des Aulnois. 

M. Gilbert [muck moved]. He is right . , . And your 
name, sir ? 

Roger. Roger. 

M. Gilbert [repeating mechanically], Roger — Roger 
— ah, indeed ! Thank you, and pray pardon me. 
You understand that in so serious a matter some 
precautions are necessary. 

Roger [smiling]. I understand. You are afraid I 
am only here for curiosity. Don't be alarmed — My 
object is bona fide ; and I am very prompt in business 
matters. As soon as the bargain is made, I intend 
to pay the purchase-money into the hands of the 
agent. Now that this is all made clear, I hope you 
will permit me to walk over the house, the offices, 
the garden, and the stables. The first look of the 
place is charming. I admire the general character 
of the house. 

M. Gilbert [flattered]. Oh, do you really ! 
[Checks himself]. You are easily pleased — for the 
street is dull, and the house inconvenient, and badly 
lighted, and very old-fashioned. 

Roger. So much the better. I hate new houses, 
all built on one pattern ; ten stone-fronts all of a 
row — and the partitions so thin you can hear your 
neighbors sneeze. Give me the good old-fashioned 
walls — strong, massive, fit to inclose a home, and 
lasting for a lifetime. 

M.Gilbert [eagerly]. For centuries — [Checks him- 
self]. But not always. The wall of our orchard 
is crumbling to pieces. As to the garden, it is in a 



102 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

pitiable state — damp, sodden, the trees all covered 
with green moss, weeds in the borders, and the grass 
a field of snails. 

Roger. Ah, charming ! I have always dreamed 
of those old-time gardens ; not cultivated, raked 
and spaded, and filled for three months by some 
florist at so much a bed : but a true pleasure-ground, 
where, as the light fades, we may fancy the beings 
of a past age gliding through the shrubberies, and 
meeting under the ancient trees. 

M. Gilbert [with emotion, and coming close to 
Roger]. Ah! yes, yes. . . [Aside.] He is full of 
good sense and good feeling. [Aloud.] The garden 
may be well enough — for those who like it — but the 
house ! My dear sir, you will find it gloomy and 
cold — the stairs are of stone, and the windows have 
miserable little leaded panes, which keep out the 
light, and let in the wind and rain. 

Roger [good - humoredly] . Pooh ! nonsense ! — 
There's charm in the murmur of the breeze through 
the corridors when we are sitting in a warm chimney 
corner round the glowing logs. 

M. Gilbert [shaking his head]. That is all very 
well when the chimneys are good — every one of ours 
smokes. [Aside.] Fine fellow ! his ideas delight- 
but terrify me. What chance have I against him ! 

Roger [aside]. Singular old man! A queer way 
of attracting purchasers. [Aloud and laughing.] You 
are very frank, sir. No one can accuse you of over- 
valuing your property. So you hate this house ? 

M.Gilbert [shocked and enthusiastic] If I love it 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. . IQ * 

with my whole heart ! [Checks himself.] That is to 
say. . .Ah ! I'm too old to play a part — I can't de- 
ceive. My young friend, I will tell you all. You 
have a good heart, and sound sense — you will under- 
stand me. Listen. This ancient house has nurtured 
me ; it has witnessed my childish joys, my youthful 
hopes, my earliest love — my first, my last, my only 
love ! I loved a young relation. I had known her 
from her infancy. I loved her in silence — I dared 
not speak. I saw her day by day, growing into all 
beauty within these walls, beneath those ancient 
trees. I was happy as the days went by, [Pauses, 
sighing.] But — ah ! timidity is criminal. When, at 
last, I dared to speak, her heart was gone — she was 
betrothed to another. I saw her leave these steps 
one morning with a husband ... I remained behind ! 
Here, within these walls, she was still my own. I 
remained ; I have spent my life here — happy, yes 
happy with my thoughts, my memories of her. Fi- 
nally — in brief — the owner of this house, Madame 
des Aulnois, came to occupy it with her little daugh- 
ter — a sweet little child, whom we have brought up 
together amid the tender silences of the old home. 
But the child has become a girl — she stands on the 
verge of womanhood — and lo ! there is in her the 
dawn of the emotions which were once my all ! 
Such is life ! Ah-! my bird ! her wings are growing 
— the nest is too narrow for her — she longs to fly. It 
is to please her, that her mother talks of selling the 
house. . .Sell it ! Oh ! — the thought is agony. [He 
holds his hands toward Roger, who grasps them^\ You 



io4 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 



understand me ! you feel for me ! you know and re- 
spect the memories of the past. You spoke just now 
with reverence for old and venerable things. You 
will pity my trouble — and help me to escape it ? 

Roger. I desire nothing better — but how ? If I 
were to resign the purchase the house would still be 
for sale. 

M. Gilbert [sadly]. Ah ! true — true. 

Roger. It is not the purchasers you must manage ; 
it is Mademoiselle des Aulnois. 

M. Gilbert. Aline ! Yes, you are right. But, how 
can I do it ? I have tried already, and — failed. [Re- 
flects.] There is a way, however — perhaps you will 
laugh at it — plead my cause with her. 

Roger. I, how could I ? What influence should I 
have ? 

M. Gilbert. The influence of youth. I am old, 
and alas ! alas ! it is like that influences like. She 
thinks me an old fogy — she can see none of my 
thoughts or meanings — but you are young ; she may 
listen to you, she may be touched — if you are only 
eloquent — as you can be. 

Roger. Ah ! but can I ? I have lived half my 
life at sea — I don't know how to talk to young 
ladies. 

M. Gilbert. Well, first your wish to purchase the 
house will serve as an introduction. . Then, gently 
and insinuatingly, you must say to her all that you 
said to me just now. And, oh ! you will say it even 
better than you did before — / know thai. Do this 
for me, and receive the grateful blessing of an old 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING, 



105 



man. [Takes him by both hands.'] I hear her coming. 
Here she is — I will present you. 



SCENE VI. 
The same — Aline. 



[She enters left, and stops surprised on seeing a 
stranger^] 

M. Gilbert. Dear Aline, your wishes are fulfilled. 
Here is a purchaser for the old home. [Presents 
Roger.] M.Roger. [Aside to Aline.] He wishes to look 
over the house. I've not the heart to go with him ; 
will you go, and spare me the sad office ? [Aloud to 
Roger.] I leave you with Mademoiselle des Aulnois. 
She will be a better guide than I could be. [Aside 
to Roger.] Now, be firm, be persuasive — or my old 
age must sink to grief and desolation. I'll wait for 
you in the orchard. [Goes out by garden door. Aline 
follows him to the threshold.] 



SCENE VII. 
Roger — Aline. 



Roger [glancing furtively at Aline while she follows 
M. Gilbert], She is lovely indeed ! I am touched 
and moved before I even speak to her. 
[ When M. Gilbert goes out, Aline returns slowly to the 
front, glancing quickly at the neiu-co?ner.] 



106 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

Aline [aside]. He is not handsome; but he 
looks sincere and frank. 

[She comes nearer to Roger — they look at each other 
as if each expected the other to speak first.] 

Aline [smiling, to Roger]. Would you rather see 
the house, or the garden, first ? 

Roger. I will glance at the garden — just for form's 
sake — for the truth is, I am — charmed — and my 
mind is made up. 

Aline. Then it is you who wish to live here ? 

Roger. Yes, mademoiselle, I — myself — with my 
dog, and my books. 

Aline [with naive pity] . Ah ! so young ! 

Roger [with a comic air of resignation]. Only thirty 
years old ! It is too early to become an actual her- 
mit. But I long for the country ; the flimsy, rest- 
less life of a great city bores me. Sometimes, as I 
return to Paris in beautiful autumn weather, I look 
out from the windows of the railway carriage, and 
see some fine old house — like this — on the outskirts 
of a country town ; and as it flits away and disap- 
pears behind its ancient poplar trees, I watch the 
blue smoke curling upward from its mossy roof, I 
catch the last glint of its vine-embowered windows, 
and I say to myself : Oh, if there is such a thing in 
life as pure romance, it is there that I must look for it. 

Aline [slmvly\. And you think you will find ro- 
mance in coming to live here ? 

Roger. I am sure of it. 

Aline [laughing]. Ah, my conscience won't al- 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



I07 



low me to let you think so. I know better. I live 
here, and I know too well there is no romance — only 
weary dullness. 

Roger [aside]. What a sweet voice ! What a 
charming, ingenuous manner ! [Aloud.] That is be- 
cause you have no patience, mademoiselle. The 
lark sings in the fields — not in the cities — I will 
prove it to you, if — I — may. 

Aline [apart]. How original he is ! [Aloud.] Tell 
me. I am listening. [She leans against the back of 
a chair and looks up at Roger. ] 

Roger [looking at her with fra?ik admiratiojt]. 
Well, I will give you an example . . . You, yourself — 
if you will permit it. You are very lovely . . . 

Aline [confused]. Ah ! no ! I 

Roger [continuing]. You were seventeen last April. 

Aline [astonished] . That is true . . . Hoav did you 
know it ? 

Roger [coming a little nearer]. I read it in your 
violet eyes — the violets bloom in April . . . With your 
youth, and your beauty, it cannot be that you have 
never thought of marriage. . . of a marriage where 
. . . Love is king ? 

Aline [aside and agitated]. Oh ! what is he going 
to say ! [Aloud.] It is getting late — ought we not to 
see the garden ? 

Roger. Listen to me one moment longer. Has 
the first word of love alarmed you ? . . . yet the whole 
life of a young girl is but the dawn of love. Tell 
me, has the thought of a betrothal never stirred 
your heart with soft emotion ? . . , Have you never 



io 8 THE 0LD HOMESTEAD. 

dreamed of a moment — a moment fraught with all 
the mystery of life . . . the moment of your first meet- 
ing with the one you are to love . . . the one who . . . 
loves . . . you ? Well, in a great city the first sacri- 
fice you will have to make is the sacrifice of such 
emotion. 

Aline. Why ? 

Roger. Because in the great world fashion and 
conventionality have robbed marriage of its mystery 
and its poetry. All is ticketed and taxed like a 
railway journey : the wedding gifts are ordered by 
the bushel : the wedding dress must be in the latest 
style. Everything is commonplace — from the gap- 
ing crowd in the church to the suite of rooms at a 
hotel where the honeymoon is passed. Husband and 
wife, as yet scarcely known to each other, are flung 
together amid the commonest and vulgarest scenes 
of every-day life . . . the sweet fragrance of early love 
... so pure ... so fresh ... so evanescent — can it live 
in such an atmosphere ?. . . But here ... ah ! here /. . . 

Aline, [regretfully]. What you say is all so sad — 
so very sad. Still, you don't know how dull and 
monotonous a country life is . . . No, indeed you don't. 
We pine in solitude, and dry up at the roots, like 
plants in the depths of a forest. 

Roger. Oh ! you are mistaken. While the wild 
flower is only in its bud, the breeze, the sky, the sun 
are its sole companions ; but when, on a bright sum- 
mer's morning, the bud opens into a flower, see how 
the bees and the butterflies come murmuring around 
it ! Whence do they come ? Why do they come ? 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 



109 



This venerable homestead . . . how few people have 
known of it . . . the grass grows in its alleys, as you 
say. But lo ! a young girl opens into womanhood, 
and those . . . who . . . would love her — come to her 
. . . the romance of which I told you has begun. Do 
you know the story of the Sleeping Beauty ? 

Aline [smiling]. I can guess what you mean ! This 
old house is the palace of the princess. . .but — [sigh- 
ing\ — alas ! where is the prince ! [She moves away, 
and sits o?i the sofa,] 

Roger. Ah ! who knows ! Perhaps you will hear 
him at the door. . . when you least expect him. Some 
lovely evening. . .like this ... an unknown young man 
may arrive . . . 

Aline [thoughtlessly]. Just as you have done ! 

Roger [continuing]. And will sit beside you. [Sits 
beside Aline. ] And will look out . . . with you . . . upon 
this sweet old garden, and naturally as the flowers 
bloom, he will speak to you of \o\<z. . .[Takes her 
hand.~\ 

Aline [making a move??ie?it to rise]. Oh ! but I shall 
not listen to him. 

Roger [holding her gently dozen]. Why not? You 
are listening to me. 

Aline. You ! but that is very different — you have 
come to buy the house. 

Roger [aside]. She is angelic! [Aloud.] I don't 
know why I came . . . There's a gulf between the mo- 
ment when I entered the house, and this moment. .. 
and my heart has crossed it ! . . . What I am now — 
what I feel now . . . why should I tell you if you have 



HO THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

not guessed it ? . . . Dear, innocent girl ... I love you 
. . . [Tries to take her hand, but Aline escapes quickly and 
goes over to left.] 

Aline [with a voice of 'emotion]. What are you say- 
ing ! . . . Leave me . . . leave me . . . 

Roger [in a supplicating lone]. Mademoiselle Aline! 

Aline. No ! not a word ! if you will not leave the 
room, I shall leave it. [Makes a movement to go out 
left.] 

Roger. No, no ! it is my place to go . . . since I 
have displeased you. Adieu, mademoiselle ... I 
go . . . [lingers a moment], but — [passionately], I love 
you. [Goes out by door at bottom of stage.] 



SCENE VIII. 
Aline, alone. 



[She walks about agitated ; stops sometimes to listen, 
then goes and sits by the window.] 

Aline. I am choking ! It was too much ! Who 
could have believed it ? He seemed so dignified — so 
reserved — so sensible — so true a gentleman. Was 
it a wager ? ... or a joke ? No, he was serious — and 
his voice trembled, when he said, " I love you." I 
— love — you . . . and his hand pressed mine ! Oh ! 
how shocking ! . . . but . . . why am I not more angry ? 
I am ashamed that I am not angry. I ought to have 
answered him severely — yes, severely. But . . . there 
was something . . . there was a charm in his words and 



PLA YS FOR PRIVA TE ACTING. Y l j 

manner which fascinated me. What must he think of 
me ! . . . And I ! ... oh ! what am I thinking of now ? 
. . . Something . . . unknown . . . fills my heart ! Oh! I 
am frightened — my hands are cold — my cheeks 
burn . . . [Moves about io distract her thoughts^ How 
lovely the evening is ! How sweet the flowers smell ! 
My heart is lifted up ! I am filled with life — and 
hope ! . . .Oh ! oh ! I cannot keep from crying ! 
[Hides her face in her hands and breaks down completely^ 



SCENE IX, 
Aline — Roger. 



[The daylight is fading. Roger softly opens the door 
at back of stage, and takes one or two steps into the 
roo??i.~\ 

Roger c I have lost myself in the old place. I 
can't find either the orchard or the old gentleman. 
I dare say he has come in again. [Sees Aline J. Ah ! 
she is still here ... in trouble . . . her pure heart 
shrinks from what I said just now . . . and she is 
grieving ! Dear child ! I was too rough with so 
sweet a flower ! Dare I . . . can I console her ? 
[He shuts the door with a slight noise, Aline lifts her 
head, sees him, and shrinks back.] 

Aline. What is this ? why have you returned ? 

Roger. Fear nothing, mademoiselle, I am search- 
ing for M. Gilbert, who intrusted me with a com- 
mission. But since I am here ... let me tell you how 



i I2 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

I regret having displeased you . . . these ancient walls 
had a tender charm which . . . inveigled me . . . 

Aline. Ah ! your excuses increase my . . . my trou- 
ble. I ought not to have allowed you to go so far. 
I ought to have stopped you at once . . . but . . . I . . . 
dared not. 

Roger [gently]. You were not afraid of me ? 

Alkie. Afraid ? oh no ! But your look ... so frank, 
so dignified . . . had made me trust you — I said to 
myself, nothing false or bad can come from him . . . 
and ... I listened to you . . . 

Roger. And you were right. If my admiration 
forced itself too warmly from my lips it was not be- 
cause my respect — my reverence — was wanting. 
Believe this, and . . . forgive me. [He appears about 
to leave her.'] And now I bid you farewell. 

Aline. Farewell. 

Roger [not moving']. Good night, mademoiselle. 
[They remain a moment, face to face, motionless and 
silent. ,] 

Aline [timidly]. And the commission . . . which 
my cousin gave you ? 

Roger. I had forgotten it. But you can help me 
to repair my neglect. Your cousin, who adores the 
house, is wretched at the thought of leaving it. I 
saw this at once, and I have not only given up my 
intention of buying it, but I have promised him I 
would persuade you not to sell it. 

Aline. Poor cousin ! Well, he shall be happy . . . 
you will think me capricious . . . but I fancy . . . now 
. . . that I can reconcile myself to live in the old home. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 113 

Roger. Is this true ? Then you will make the 
good old man happy indeed — it will bring a blessing 
on your own dear head. 



SCENE X. 

The same — M. Gilbert. 

[The latter enters wiper ceived through the garden door.] 

M. Gilbert [apart] . I was in perfect misery ; I 
could wait no longer : where can the young fellow 
be! [Sees them.] Why there he is — still with 
Aline ! 

Aline [thoughtfully]. I find in the old surround- 
ings a charm that I did not know they had — the old 
house seems brighter — the garden sweeter. 

M. Gilbert [aside and wondering]. What is she 
saying ? If I could only listen without being seen ! 
[Slips behind the screen?^ 

Roger [smiling softly to Aline], And what good 
fairy has wrought the miracle ? 

M. Gilbert [sitting doivn behind the screen, aside]. 
There, I can listen at my ease. My heart beats as 
if I were a lad. 

Roger [to Aline], You do not answer me. 

Aline [after a moment's pause]. Because I do not 
know how to explain what is passing through my 
mind. It is all so confused. I seem to have waked 
into another world. This morning I was weary and 
indifferent in the midst of the old, familiar, silent ob- 



ii4 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 



jects. To-night, they have a voice. . .they speak to 
me — I notice them — I listen to them. . .Is it a fairy 
tale ? I see the shadows of the lindens ... I smell the 
sweetness of the flowers ... I hear the birds at their 
evening song ... I feel it all . . . and I — I love — it ! 

M. Gilbert [aside]. How I long to kiss her. 

Roger [aside]. Enchanting child ! [A loud.] And 
you are sure that before this evening these charms 
had never struck you ? 

Aline. Oh, yes ! I am very, very sure. While you 
were speaking the thought dawned upon me, "He is 
right." My eyes were opened. . . [ With less reserve.] 
Perhaps I am wrong to say all this to you . . . but I 
can't deceive 

Roger [ardently]. Ah ! say more ! say more ! Let 
your heart speak — do not bind yourself by the false 
ideas which forbid a young girl to speak or to feel 
honestly. [He lakes Iter hand and leads her to the win- 
dow]. See ! the moon rises. . .the lilies shine in its 
silvery light . . . they unfold their white petals, and 
give forth their fragrance to the breeze. . .let your 
youth and loveliness blossom and unfold like theirs ! 

M. Gilbert [wiping his eyes]. Fine fellow ! he 
brings the tears to my eyes. 

Aline [looking to the garden]. The moonlight makes 
all things beautiful. It gives a mysterious charm 
even to the old orchard ! 

Roger. Yes ! the charm that clings to all that is 
venerable. Beneath the ashes of the past live the 
undying hopes and joys of those who have gone be- 
fore ; — bequeathed, by the men and women who 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



us 



once lived and loved, to all lovers who come after 
them. Springs may come and go — lilies may bloom 
and fade — but the one thing which lives for ever 
within the sanctity of these ancient walls is — Love ! 

Aline [softly\. Yes — and to-night I know it — I 
love it — all. 

Roger [clasping her hand]. You love it — all — ah ! 
but is that all? . . . [Aline, troubled, looks down and is 
silent.'] Dearest . . . beloved ! . . . my heart, my life 
are yours — can you not love me ! Listen. I am 
alone in the world, I am able to live how and where 
I choose. Give me a word of hope ! Let me pass 
my life with yours, in the dear old home ! . . . 

Aline. You ask me for a word of hope, but oh ! 
how can I . . . give it ! ... I am alone . . . [then al- 
most with a cry] Mother ! 

Roger. Do not weep ! She will be here to-night. 
I have much to tell you ; much to explain. Let me 
open my heart to you, and tell you my history. 
Come, let us talk together under the trees, and be- 
side the flowers. [Tries to draw her to the garden door.] 
Come ! see how softly the moon lights up the paths. 

Aline [following, then pausing]. Oh, I am afraid 
... is it not too late ? 

Roger [tenderly], I entreat you, come ! And besides, 
did you not promise to show me the garden ? 
[They disappear.] 



n 6 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

SCENE XL 

M. Gilbert, alone. 

[He comes out of his hidiyig-place beaming with joy .] 

M. Gilbert. The dear children ! I am beside my- 
self with joy and tenderness. Heaven sent that 
young fellow here ! I have shed the sweetest tears 
of all my life ! And Aline ! What simple grace 
and truth ! As she spoke, my youth flowed back 
upon me, and I seemed to hear . . . her mother ! 
Ah ! he said truly that these walls were teeming 
with the tenderness and love of other days ... I know 
it well . . . and the shadow ... no, the halo of that love 
is in the air . . . it falls on theni ! [ Walks quickly about. ~] 
My heart is full of joy ! There is a youth. . .ah ! yes, 
a youth for old age ! 



SCENE XI L 

M. Gilbert — Susan. 



[She enters left, not seeing M. Gilbert.'] 

Susan. Where in the world are they ? Here's nine 
o'clock by the bells, and not a soul at home. [Sees M. 
Gilbert .] Well, well, here you are ! the supper is cold, 
and everything waiting. Where's mademoiselle ? 

M. Gilbert [coming close to Susan with a mysterious 
air]. Hush ! She is in the garden. 

Susan. In the garden ! at this time of night. She'll 
get her death of cold. [Calling.] Mademoiselle ! 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTRYG. 



U7 



M. Gilbert [still mysterious\ Stop ! Hush !— 
[Bursting out.'] Oh, Susan, I am so happy ! 

Susan. Happy ? Are you ? Well, I shouldn't 
have thought it after what Mam'selle Aline told you. 
You take the sale of the old home rather quietly ! 

M. Gilbert. The sale ? Pooh ! We've got far 
beyond that. A great deal has happened ... A 
young man has come . . . 
. Susan. To stop the sale ? 

M. Gilbert. No, to buy the house. 

Susan. I don't understand. 

M. Gilbert. He came to look at it, but / was 
there — I and Aline. He has seen her — he admires 
her — he adores her. 

Susan. What ? the house ? 

M. Gilbert [more and more exhilarated]. No, no — 
Aline. He loves her. She loves him — they love each 
other ! I brought it all about. Xo more selling the 
house : no more partings from the old home — no 
more tears. Peace, hope, joy, and — a wedding. 
See, they are in the garden. 

Susan [astounded]. You didn't let them go alone ? 

M. Gilbert [rather confused]. The fact is they 
never asked my permission. 

Susan. Gracious goodness ! You are a pretty man 
to be left in charge. What will madame say ? 

M. Gilbert. Xow, don't worry. He is a fine young 
fellow — the heart of a man, and the manners of a 
gentleman. It's an excellent match — and, between 
ourselves, I believe he is very rich. 

Susan [impatiently]. What mischief you've done ! 



Il8 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

If he were as brave as a prince, and as rich as a 
nabob it won't do — he comes too late — Madame has 
got some one else in her eye for mademoiselle. 

M. Gilbert. Some one else ! 

Susan. Yes ! and it's all arranged. Madame has 
passed her word. His name is Monsieur de Breteuil. 
I saw him in Paris with my own two eyes — and a 
very good-looking young man he is. A pretty ket- 
tle of fish you've got yourself into ! Madame will be 
furious with you. 

M. Gilbert [dropping into a chair]. Susan ! This 
is worse than all the rest. I am lost. I can 
never face Madame des Aulnois. I must go. My 
dear beloved home ! the struggle has come again ; 
I must leave you ; I must bid you farewell forever ; 
my last hope is gone . . . And those poor, dear, loving 
children ! oh, it is hard — it is cruel . . . what can be 
done ? 

Susan. Done, indeed ! a pretty question ! Why ! 
separate them. [Goes toward the window.] 

M. Gilbert. Yes, you are right. But [with dignity] 
come back, Susan ; it is not for you to do it ; I will do 
it myself. . . [Glances round the room .] Ah, my fresh 
hopes . . . my second youth . . . what a bitter end ! 
[Aline s voice is heard singing a few bars of Home, 
Sweet Home. M, Gilbert listens a moment, then sinks 
into a chair near the screen and covers his face with his 
hands — Susan stands near him to left.] 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING, XI q 



SCENE XIII. 

The same — Aline — Roger. 

[Enter together .] 

Aline. We have talked of many things ; but you 
have not told me what I shall say to mamma . . . 
[Susan peeps round the side of the screen j at the sound 
of her voice Aline and Roger start, and come forward.'] 

Susan. Why ! Good gracious ! Monsieur ! [shak- 
ing M. Gilbert'] — It is he ! 

M. Gilbert [bewildered^. He ! Who ? 

Susan. Why, Monsieur de Breteuil . . . the gentle- 
man for Mademoiselle Aline. 

Aline. What is she saying ? 

M. Gilbert. What is all this ? Is he ? . . . Are 
you ! . . . oh, young man ! what conflicting emotions 
you have caused me in a few short hours ! You told 
me your name was Roger ? 

Roger. Roger de Breteuil. [To Aline,] This is 
the explanation I was about to give you when Susan 
interrupted us. Madame des Aulnois, whom I have 
known in Paris, was good enough to think me worthy 
to become her son-in-law. I felt the honor . . . but 
I am somewhat . . . fanciful. I wished to see the 
young lady before it could be known that I pre- 
tended to her hand. I longed to woo her ... to 
win her unbiassed consent. . . I spoke of my project 
to Madame des Aulnois, and she smiled upon it. I 
seized the occasion of the house being for sale — and 
I came ... in time to console M. Gilbert, and to 



120 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

plead the cause of the Old Homestead with Made- 
moiselle Aline. [To Aline y tenderly] Have I suc- 
ceeded ' 

M. Gilbert [kissing Aline on the forehead\ Ah ! 
my darling ! Antiquity is a good thing. There's 
nothing like an old tree to build a nest in . . .ask the 
birds ; and there's nothing like an old house to 
make love in . . . ask Roger. 

[Curtain falls] 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

BY GUSTAVE DROZ. 



CHARACTERS. 

Abbe le Roux. 

The Count. 

The Countess. 

Ledoyen, a Notary, 

Bois de Groslau, a Pre'fet. 

Clerk. 

Man Servant. 

Library — Table covered zuith papers. 



SCENE I. 

Count and Countess. 



Count. It is enough to distract one — unforeseen 
difficulties and obstacles rising up suddenly at the last 
moment, when I haven't an instant to spare, over- 
run with work, and only kept up by quantities of 
black coffee. Really, Countess, this is paying dear 
for the honor of being deputy. 

121 



122 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

Countess. I know you have an iron constitution, 
but I really don't see that these obstacles are so 
enormous. 

Count. What ! You don't see that by insisting on 
its being entirely secular, they make it impossible for 
me even to found it ? Now the foundation of that 
school is the base, the pivot of my election, I tell you 
frankly. Look at this confidential note from head- 
quarters: " We must keep out the church party by all 
means, my dear Count ; beware of maneuvers, that 
may be reserved for the last moment ; make haste, 
etc . . . the abolishment of church influence, or I will 
answer for nothing, etc..." This is what that 
lovely Prefect has written me, impudent fellow ! pro- 
claim it secular ! Very easy to say ! 

Countess. Then don't proclaim it anything, my 
dear Count. 

Count. How can I help proclaiming when twenty 
or thirty letters threaten me, when they write horrible 
things on my. door, when they literally put a pistol 
to my breast ? It's incredible . . . The behavior of 
these people is most discouraging. ..What, gentle- 
men, have I not the right to spend my money to 
please myself ? Who authorizes you to suspect my 
good faith ? Who authorizes you to call in question 
my devotion to my country ? Can't I follow the dic- 
tates of my own conscience — according to circum- 
stances ? 

Countess. To proclaim in advance that it shall be 
secular is to embroil yourself completely with the 
church party — in other words, with half the country. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 123 

Count. And to promise it as belonging to the 
church is to embroil me with the other half — but that's 
not all, my dear : consider that that worthy Abbe le 
Roux will never — no, never, sell me 

Countess \_quicMy\. Oh, we'll manage that. He 
has enormous influence over the Cardinal — he man- 
ages everything. 

Count, I know that, and that is precisely what 
troubles me. Never, I repeat, will the Abbe le 
Roux sell me Les Herbiers, knowing that I intend 
to build a school, independent of the church, on 
that ground. Now there is no other site. Les Her- 
biers has, moreover, the advantage, as you know, of 
adjoining the park, so that in case of necessity they 
could be united. 

Countess. That would certainly be very nice. 

Count. Exactly! Oughtn't they to be satisfied with 
my promise ? — and when I am elected 

Countess. Never mind that — we want the Abbe's 
property, and we will have it ; that's the only light 
in which we must look at it. What is Les Herbiers 
worth ? 

Count. The little piece of ground has no value ; 
even weeds refuse to grow there. 

Countess. But there's the house. 

Count. You'd better say the barrack. The walls 
.are crumbling to pieces. The doors rotten — the roof 
— why, when it rains, Claude and his family are 
obliged to carry all the pots and pans to the garret to 
catch the water. That is an exact description of 
the Abbe le Roux's mansion. 



124 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

Countess. Are not these Claudes relations of the 
Abbe? 

Count. Yes, they are relations of his, and the lazi- 
est creatures in the country — no order, no system, 
and dirty. Nobody else would ever have been will- 
ing to live in such a miserable hole. 

Countess. How much does he rent it for ? 

Count. What rent could he ask for such a place ? 
He gives it for nothing, and really he couldn't have 
the impudence to ask more. 

Countess. Well, now tell me what you think this 
little paradise is worth ? Three thousand francs ? 
Do you think that is too much ? 

Count. Three thousand francs ! Why, that's triple 
— quadruple w T hat it's worth. 

Countess. Really ? 

Count. I assure you it is. 

Countess. Then I am afraid you will scold me, for 
I have already offered it to our worthy Abbe. 

Count. You have offered the Abbe the three thou- 
sand francs ? How imprudent ! 

Countess. Don't be alarmed. I have managed very 
cautiously. Ledoyen, your notary, was to sound 
the Abbe Derval first. 

Count. The Abbe Derval ! a blond, c^rlv-haired 
little fellow, isn't he ? 

Countess. Precisely. He has a delightful voice — a 
voice that goes to the soul. He is very clever, and 
he in his turn will sound the Abbe le Roux. After 
which, Ledoyen will come in. You see that is very 
simple. I shouldn't be surprised if the affair is set- 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



12$ 



tied at this moment ! [Looking atclock?\ I'm surprised 
that Ledoyen is not here now — it was agreed that 
he should return with the reply immediately. 

Count. That will be the saving of me, my dear 
Jeanne ; although three thousand francs seems to me 
rather. . .However we'll put that in the general ex- 
penses ; but why didn't you tell me this before ? 
Still, I won't blame you, as the result is for the best. 

Countess. Don't let us cry victory too soon. 

Count. It will be very curious if he refuses that 
price ; but you ought to have told me of this 
sooner. 

Countess. You were so overwhelmed with your af- 
fairs, so uneasy and nervous — why should I have 
added to your troubles ? I wanted to act like the 
good fairy, who overcomes all difficulties w T ith a 
stroke of her wand. Ah, my dear, we women are 
born diplomats. You break, we untie ; that's the 
reason we have such small fingers — [she looks at her 
hand, smiling]. 

Count [kissing her hand]. Ah, dearest Jeanne, you 
are just the companion for a politician. 

Countess. Listen ! don't you hear footsteps ? It is 
Ledoyen; it is he, I am sure ! 

Count. We are saved ! 



I2 6 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

SCENE II 
The same — Ledoyen. 

Count Well, Monsieur Ledoyen, well ? 

Countess. It is settled, I suppose. Speak ! speak ! 

Ledoyen [panting and making signs that he is out of 
breath] . . . I — I have — run. 

Count. That's nothing ; he consents to the three 
thousand francs, doesn't he ? 

Ledoyen. First — I — have 

Count. Are there any mortgages ? 

Ledoyen. First, I went to see the Abbe yesterday 
evening 

Countess. The Abbe Derval ? Very well. Then — 

Ledoyen. Who was not at home. 

Count. Not at home ? Why not — at such a time ? 

Countess. To the point ! 

Ledoyen. He was — with the Cardinal, who is ill. 

Count. Ill ? Am / ill ? 

Countess \interrupting\ His lordship ill ! Not 
seriously, I hope. 

Ledoyen. Very seriously. 

Countess. Oh, good heavens ! and then you waited 
for the Abbe Derval ? 

Ledoyen. Until eleven o'clock. In fact 

Countess. Then you succeeded in speaking with 
him, and 

Ledoyen. Yes, and he understood very well — he 
is a charming person, this young Abbe. 

Countess. Isn't he ? Go on, Monsieur Ledoyen, go 
on. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING, l2 y 

Ledoyen. It was agreed that he should go this very 
morning after mass to see the Abbe le Roux, and that 
I should meet him there and conclude the bargain. 

Countess. And you went, and the affair is arranged ? 

Ledoyen. I was at the Abbe's at half-past ten ; he 
is indeed a charming man. 

Count. But what did he say ? 

Ledoyen. I had to wait until noon, my dear Count, 
as he was detained by the bedside of the Cardinal. 

Countess. You assured him, I hope, of the interest 
we take in the reverend father's illness ? 

Ledoyen. Certainly, my dear Countess. 

Count. Well, yes or no ? 

Countess. Did he accept ? 

Ledoyen. But — I don't know. 

Count and Countess. You don't know ? 

Ledoyen [smiling]. But everything tends to show 
me that my mission was not unsuccessful, and... 
[after fumbling in his pocket he draws out a letter'] 
and this letter, which the Abbe le Roux begged me 
to give you, doubtless contains his acceptance. 

Count. Well, give it to me, then. 

Countess. You have kept us in horrible suspense 
for a quarter of an hour. 

Count [while Ledoyen assumes a?i air of impor- 
tance]. The dear Abbe does things according to 
rule. It looks like an official document. [He opens 
the letter, and the others approach with an anxioits air; 
reading.) " Monsieur le Comte, there is but one kind 
of mouthpiece for our cornet-a-piston. Therefore, 
according to your wishes, the bearer of this letter 



128 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

will have the honor of submitting to you the model 
which we generally adjust to the speaking trumpet, 
for which a patent. . . " What does this mean ? Oh, 
yes, I know, it is the answer from Saxe & Co. It is 
about the music for the fire brigade. 

Ledoyen. Oh ! A thousand pardons. I got them 
mixed [he searches his pockets]. This letter was 
handed to me by a gentleman waiting in the ante- 
room, and who begged me to hand it to you. Here 
is the other letter, the Abbe le Roux's [he gives the 
Count a very small three-cornered note] . 

Count [reading with emotion]. " Dear Count, the 
excellent Abbe Derval tells me of the great anx- 
iety you feel about the dear Cardinal's deplorable 
state. His horrible sufferings have somewhat abated 
this morning, and I hope to escape for a moment 
and be able to give you the particulars of this sad 
event which calls for your pious solicitude. Yours, 
etc. [All three look at each other stupefied.] 

Countess. Is that all ? 

Count. It is incomprehensible. 

Ledoyen. I am completely astonished [getting near 
the letter]. You'll allow me to look at it ? 

Count. But — look for yourself, Ledoyen. I think 
I know how to read. 

Ledoyen [quickly]. P. T. O., Count, P. T. O. 

Countess. He is going mad. 

Ledoyen. Please turn over. 

Count [turning the page and putting on his glasses]. 
Oh, there is a postscript. [Reads.] " But what is this 
the excellent Abbe Derval tells me ? It appears 



PLA YS FOR PRIVA TE ACTING. 



I2g 



you have taken a fancy to the poor little cottage in 
which my old father died. I can hardly believe, 
my dear Count, that my little house could have at- 
tracted your attention for an instant ; and I am more 
inclined to think that this is one of those innocent 
jokes of which the good Abbe Derval is quite capa- 
ble." 

Countess. Is that all ? 

Count. There is not another word. [Severely, to zhe 
Notary ?\ By heavens, Master Notary, this kind of 
joking is not to my taste ; you treat the interests of 
your clients rather cavalierly. 

Ledoyen. I protest, monsieur, against the impu- 
tations of this letter. 

Count. What, sir ! You have confided to you a 
most important and delicate mission — a mission on 
which depend the gravest interests, those of the entire 
country, and at a critical moment too, when I am 
overcome with fatigue and only sustained by exces- 
sive use of black coffee — and you betray the confi- 
dence placed in you. 

Countess. Your duty, Master Notary, was to bring 
us a definite answer. 

Ledoyen. I am deeply grieved, madam. I swear 
to you by all that I hold most sacred, that I fulfilled 
this mission with all the zeal of which I am capable. 
Not only did I sound the Abbe Derval, but I had a 
long conference with the Abbe le Roux, when he 
spoke of the sale of Les Herbiers most seriously, and, 
I venture to say, with perfect tact. When he heard 
the sum that was offered he smiled pleasantly, and 



130 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

said hurriedly, in a low voice, " The price is a matter 
of small consequence, very small consequence." He 
then wrote this letter, which he begged me to take 
to you. How could I suppose that this paper con- 
tained anything but a formal acceptance of your 
offer ? Ah ! Monsieur le Comte, I feel deeply 
your lack of confidence in me. 

Count \walking up and down]. But I, too, my 
dear Notary, you see my situation is intolerable. 
Played with ! fooled ! trampled on ! \he goes to the 
window and raises curtain.'] Look ! there they are 
posting my new proclamation, and already fifty rag- 
amuffins are raising a row. I believe they are going 
to tear it down ! Poor country ! Sad times ! I must 
have Les Herbiers ; I must have a school. [To 
Ledoyen.'] Do you hear ? 

Countess. After such a letter, the Abbe le Roux 
must soon come here, and then I will take every- 
thing into my own hands, my dear Monsieur Ledoy- 
en ; but if, contrary to my expectation, he does not 
come, then no further hesitation ! Go at once to him 
and insist upon an answer. He is not astonished by 
the offer of three thousand francs ; offer him four — 
five thousand. 

Count. But, my dear 

Countess. Go even to six thousand, Ledoyen. 
Ah ! my dear husband, life is a battle in which we 
must use the weapons we have. The thing is, never 
to be conquered. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



SCENE III. 



131 



The same — Servant — afterward Clerk from 
Saxe & Co. 

Servant [opening the door halfway\. A person 
who 

Countess. It's the Abbe le Roux. Didn't I tell 
you ? [ While the Countess is speaking, and the Comit 
and Notary are about to leave, a small man, carrying 
a large brass instrume?it, slips under the arm of the 
Servant who is holding the door partly open, enters, 
and bows familiarly to everybody .] 

Clerk. I come from Messrs. Saxe & Co., sir, to 
answer in person your honored letter of the 7th inst. 

Count [after looking at him with astonishment for 
a moment]. Our fire brigade complain of the small 
size of the mouthpieces of their horns, I recollect 
now I wrote to you. It seems to me that I received 
a letter on this subject, but it is impossible for me 
at present to recall the details. 

Clerk. Certainly, Monsieur le Comte ! and I have 
the honor to bring you 

Count [preoccupied]. Excuse me. [He approaches 
the Countess and Ledoyen, who are talking confiden- 
tially. — To Notary '.] Don't offer the whole six thou- 
sand at first, you understand [he goes back to Clerk], 

Clerk. As I said before, I shall have the honor of 
bringing you the mouthpieces 7 — 32, with which 
I am certain you will be satisfied. 

Count. That's all right. Will you put those ma- 
chines on the table ? 



132 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 



Clerk. Moreover, I wish to show you a specimen 
of our signal-trumpet in G ; orchestral and alarm in- 
strument combined, which will henceforth be indis- 
pensable to every well-organized band. 

Count. Excuse me, my dear sir, but you see how 
very busy I am just now. 

Servant [enters]. Monsieur l'Abbe le Roux. 

Countess [rises quickly and rims to Count] . Leave 
me alone with him. Go quickly ! [Count, still fol- 
lowed by Clerk and Le doyen, hurries out to the rights] 



SCENE IV. 
Countess and Abbe le Roux. 

Countess [after rapidly arranging her head-dress, 
advances. — To Abbe, with trembling voice]. How is the 
dear Cardinal ? 

Abbe. He is slightly better — thanks, madam. 

Countess. Thank heaven ! 

Abbe. It was like a stroke of lightning. The at- 
tack came on very suddenly Monday evening, after 
the Angelus. 

Countess. Then you think he is out of danger? 
What a load you take from my mind, my dear Abbe ! 
[She approaches him, and seems disposed to change the 
conversation.] 

Abbe. It was like a stroke of lightning, as I said 
before. The organic functions, too long disturbed, 
were the real cause of this fearful attack. The alarm 
quickly spread all over the palace. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



*33 



Countess. I can readily believe it, What agonies 
you must have suffered ! 

Abbe. I ran to the telegraph office : but his pain 
becoming more intense. I sent for Doctor Berard, 
who lives near by. Dr. Berard is a man well thought 
of, and respectable in every way. 

Countess. He must be. moreover, a skillful physician, 
since he has saved our dear Cardinal : but I am sor- 
ry to revive recollections of such cruel scenes — let 
us say no more about it. 

Abbe. Skillful physician certainly ! but whether he 
had had no experience in such cases, or whether the 
great responsibility of such a serious attack made 
his hand tremble and confused his judgment, I 
only know that this unfortunate Doctor caused the 
Cardinal great pain, and did not obtain — [two or 
three loud-sounding notes are heard from the trumpet. 
Abbe makes a movement of fear. Countess sereams, but 
collecting herself immediately, smiles graciously]. 

Countess. Do not be alarmed. I know what it is. 
They are showing the Count an instrument for the 
lire brigade. It is nothing \with confidence and vi- 
vacity . But I am going to scold you. my dear Abbe ; 
you are very hard upon the good Abbe Derval. The 
propositions he made to you 

Abbe. The Abbe Derval is a saint, madam. He 
alone, in the midst of this general despair, retained 
that clearness of intellect, courage, and presence of 
mind, which make him the strongest champion of a 
good cause. Seeing that Dr. Berard had done but 
little good, we waited — iuds;e of our anxiety — we 



134 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

waited for the specialist Vincent, to whom I had 
sent an urgent telegram. 

Countess. That was right ; but those propositions, 
you know — those propositions ? They were very 
important. 

Abbe. He only made one, but that was certainly 
very important. It was to perform the same opera- 
tion again, which Dr. Berard's want of skill had ren- 
dered very much more difficult. 

Countess. I am speaking of the propositions made 
to you by the Abbe Derval, from us, about Les 
Herbiers. 

Abbe. It seems to me he did say something about 
it ; but, you can well understand, madam, that under 
such serious circumstances, I did not pay much at- 
tention to what was said ; for just at that moment, 
Vincent could not answer for the Cardinal's life. 

Countess. Yes, yes, I understand perfectly how 
painful such a subject must have been to you, sur- 
rounded as you were by such anxious cares. There- 
fore, perhaps, it would be better to finish this little 
affair at once and get it off your mind. Here it is 
in two words. Your property of Les Herbiers, which 
joins our park, tempts us — tempts us very much. 
I am frank to a fault. Moreover, I understand 
nothing about business, so I shall probably manage 
this affair very clumsily. Now we have taken a fancy 
to Les Herbiers, and my husband is willing to pay 
generously for it. 

Abbe. Monsieur le Comte does everything gener- 
ously. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



135 



Countess. I understand ; without bargaining 
[smiles]. What Monsieur Ledoyen told you must 
have convinced you of that. 

Abbe. I was so anxious at the time your notary 
came to me that 

Countess. I scolded him severely for having pressed 
the subject on you. He must have offered the 
three or four thousand francs with the brutality of a 
business agent. It was a very large sum, I must say, 
considering the small value of your little place ; still, 
that was no reason. 

Abbe. Questions of money are not in my line, and 
to one constituted as I am, the subject is positively 
repulsive. 

Countess [offering him her hand] . How well I can 
sympathize with you ! What did Ledoyen offer you ? 
three, four, five thousand ? I don't remember ex- 
actly ; and, besides, what does it matter ? [In low 
and confidential voice.] The Count is able to pay. 
Name the price yourself, my dear Abbe, and let us 
conclude the bargain quickly, that there may no 
longer be a question of money between us, which, 
I confess, is odious to me. 

Abbe [frankly]. Let me imitate your frankness, 
madam. As we advance in age, and lose our inter- 
est in worldly things, we cling more to memories of 
the past ; therefore the offers your notary made me, 
and with such persistence, I recollect now, troubled 
without tempting me. Les Herbiers is of little value 
they tell me 



136 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 



Countess. Not so little ; for I have offered you 
six thousand francs for it. 

Abbe. Six or eight, I don't know and don't care to 
know. At the mere thought of parting with that 
humble dwelling my heart aches. I passed my boy- 
hood there, and it was there that I promised to 
devote my life to the service of God. I see now the 
large, airy room with its great stone fireplace, the 
great oaken beams and thick walls that in my child- 
ish imagination I compared to a fortress. 

Countess. Time has impaired all that ! 

Abbe. No, madam, no. Time only revives these 
sweet memories and makes them more precious to 
me. I still see my dear old father spending the last 
hours of his life in the cultivation of his garden, 
gathering his fruit, and, in spite of his age, finding 
strength to dig up his potatoes. Excuse these 
details [Countess impatient]. " What good potatoes 
these are ; the best to be found within ten leagues," 
he would say, with his sweet smile. Ah ! how well we 
children agreed with him ! What delightful hours we 
passed in the old garret ! [the Countess more impa- 
tient.] And then, our frolics round the fountain from 
whence flowed such delicious spring- water. 

Countess. But, my dear Abbe, there is not the 
least trace of a fountain there. 

Abbe. Sweet memories ! Last year, when I once 
more saw Les Herbiers, at the time when I had the 
new roof put on the house 

Countess. It was very badly done, I hear, 

Abbe. I felt then how happy I should be to end 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 137 

my days there, at peace with myself and all the 
world. 

Countess. What, monsieur ! You, who are des- 
tined to fulfill the highest religious duties ! 

Abbe. Sell my poor roof ! 

Countess. Even for — ten thousand francs ? 

Abbe. What would become of my tenants ? Claude 
and his wife are my relations — the only relations left to 
me. They have lived there fifteen years, and heaven 
has blessed their union with six children, whom they 
bring up with industrious habits and in the fear of 
God. 

Countess. Very touching ! — but we can find them 
another home. 

Abbe. Shall I turn them into the high road ? 
Where would they find a home so suitable to them 
as that of the Herbiers, which I let them have at a 
nominal rent, not wishing to make money out of my 
own relations. 

Countess. But I tell you, we will find them another 
home. 

Abbe. But I tell you that Claude is an invaluable 
farmer. 

Countess. But I tell you, ten thousand francs, my 
dear Abbe. 

Abbe. I see that I tire you. I forget myself when 
Claude is the subject. He is so dear to me. Men 
of his kind are modest and make no parade of 
their good qualities. Look, madam, at your little 
farm of La Breche, which your farmer is just about 
to leave in such a deplorable state — does that not 



138 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 



prove that the most sensible and intelligent pro- 
prietors are sometimes deceived by appearances in 
the choice of their tenants ? 

Countess. I understand and appreciate your views. 
Well, then, you accept ? 

Abbe [going toward door]. Taking everything 
into consideration, let us give up all idea of this 
sale. 

Countess [in great emotion]. Why, what do mean ? 

Abbe. Or, at least, let us put it off for the present. 
Give me time to think over it — give me time, too, to 
prepare my poor relations for the grief they will feel 
at the idea of leaving their home. The winter will 
be severe. Let us wait until it has passed. 

Countess. Not at all, my dear Abbe, one moment. 

Abbe [opening door]. It will be wicked of me to 
remain longer when Monseigneur is lying on his bed 
of suffering. Countess, with great respect, good 
morning. [Bows and exit.] 



SCENE V. 
Countess alone — afterward Count and Clerk. 

Countess. Gone ! gone, and nothing done ! — I must 
have managed very badly. What shall I do ? What 
can I do now ? 

Count [enters followed closely by Clerk. Turns quick- 
ly toward him]. For heaven's sake, sir, go ! Send 
me a dozen — two dozen of them, if you choose — only 
leave me in peace ! 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 



r 39 



Clerk [putting instrument under arm, seizes his note- 
book and writes.] One dozen in G, another dozen in 
A. Your orders shall be promptly executed, sir. 
\Bows^\ I have the honor 

Count. Good morning. \_Exit Clerk. 



SCEXE VI. 
Count and Countess. 

Count. Well, is it arranged ? [Countess thoughtfully 
shakes her head.] Then all is lost ! I do not know 
how I shall be able to resist all these attacks. Are 
you aware that the time is approaching when the 
committees meet ? The most alarming accounts 
come to me from every side — fortunately the fire- 
works are here. They will cause a diversion in my 
favor. I have the mouthpieces too. Nothing is talked 
of but this miserable school. Bets are being laid 
whether it will be secular or not. I am turned into 
ridicule. I am insulted. One of the men employed 
in putting up my proclamation is covered with bruises. 
Never has such an excitement been seen. Secular ! 
I ask nothing better. Am I not a layman myself ? 

Countess. Ten thousand fiancs even won't satisfy 
him, and he wants our farm of La Breche secured 
to his cousin Claude. 

Count. He is mad ! It is ridiculous, absurd . . . 
I consent to it. I will give whatever he wants — 
fifteen — twenty thousand francs if he wishes. I am 
nearly crazy with the throbbing in my head. 



140 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

Countess [striking her forehead]. The evil can 
be remedied. Sit down, take a pen and write. 

Count [sits, takes up pen, rings hand-bell]. Write 
to whom, my dear ? 

Countess. To the Abbe le Roux. We must have 
him back at all hazards. Let me dictate a note to 
you — something impressive and earnest. [Dictating.] 
" My dear Abbe, my wife has misunderstood my in- 
tentions. . . " 

Count. " You have misunderstood my intentions." 
[To Servant, who enters .] Get a hot foot-bath ready 
for me. [ Writing.] " My intentions," but what in- 
tentions ? 

Countess. Nevermind. [Dictating.] "I do not 
wish this misunderstanding to last a moment 
longer. . ." 

Servant. With mustard in it, sir ? 

Count [to Servant]. Yes, and some very strong 
coffee. [ Writing.] " that this misunderstanding with 
mustard should last " — [crumpling letter and throw- 
ing it away\ This damned fool making me write 
such idiotic things, such ridiculous trash in a letter 
of the most serious importance ! [ Takes another 
sheet of paper and writes.] Now I am ready, my 
dear. 

Countess [dictating] . " Come back, my dear 
Abbe, I wish to open my heart to you." 

Count. I don't understand a word of it — " open 
my heart to you." 

Countess. " And correct the impressions caused 
by the thoughtlessness of my wife/ 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. j^j 

Count. But, my dear, I accuse you of thoughtless- 
ness in this letter? 

Countess. Certainly. [She rings hand-bell.] I will 
explain it all to you later. [To Servant, who enters.} 
Take this letter to the Abbe le Roux ; you must run 
after him ; not a moment's delay. See that he is 
here in fifteen minutes [exit Servant], and I will 
answer for it he will be. 

Count. Will you, at least, let me know how I am 
to open my heart to the good Abbe ? 

Countess. Simply open your purse to him ! The 
purchase of Les Herbiers is only an affair of money. 
[Knocking heard at door, left \] I will leave you ; keep 
up your courage, don't despair. [Exit. 

Count. Who can be coming from that direction ? 
[Aloud.] Come in. 



SCENE VII. 
Bois de Groslau, the Prefect — Count. 

Count. Ah ! welcome, my dear Prefect ! 

Prefect. I was obliged to come by the park, al- 
though it was the longest way. Excuse my coming 
in without announcement, but I did not wish to be 
seen ; my presence here at this time might injure 
you. 

Count, Your presence injure me ? 

Prefect. Yes, such caution is altogether excep- 
tional ; anywhere else we could act without fear, 
but here we are never safe, the minds of the people 



14- 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 



are troubled and excited. In a word, the situation is 
most critical. 

Count. Do you think it favorable to me ? 

Prefect. Not exactly, my dear Count. I feel very 
doubtful. 

Count. It was only three days ago that you as- 
sured me. 

Prefect. Three days ago everything was for the 
best, that is true ; now, nothing is lost, but all de- 
pends on the committees. In the present state of 
public feeling, the decision of the committees will 
be life or death to you. 

Count. This is most disastrous ! 

Prefect. Most disastrous ! but we must act 
promptly ! Go this very evening to the meeting of 
the committees, and when the discussion becomes 
warm, then proclaim boldly your intentions in regard 
to the school. You have already delayed too long. 

Count. I have delayed too long — and there is the 
Church party ... If I should proclaim it religious ? 

Prefect. Oh ! that will do you very little harm. 
But at all events proclaim it ; you must proclaim it. 

Count. Fortunately, I am perfectly independent, 
and can do as I choose ; strike right or left. What 
do we want, after all ? 

Prefect. To have a majority. 

Count. And by this means to obtain the welfare 
of the country. We care very little for the means if 
we can but obtain our object. 

Prefect. I have read your views with extreme plea- 
sure. Elevated in its ideas ! [searches in pocket .] 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



143 



Grand in style ! Ah ! here it is ! [unfolds paper .] 
It is very remarkable ; and, if you will permit me to 
make a few notes in pencil — it is only . . . 

Count. My opinion is, that in addressing a crowd, 
it is always better to maintain an air of great dignity. 

Prefect. Quite right ! 

Count. And to avoid all petty consideration of per- 
son and party. 

Prefect. You have obtained this result — allow me 
to show you several passages. Let me see ! — let me 
see ! \_Reads very rapidly, like a notary reading a 
deed.] " Gentlemen, one word more : in offering my- 
self for your suffrages, I do not yield, I repeat — " 
That isn't it ! " Born in the country, living amongst 
you. . ." Very good ! very good ! That is not it ! 
" The unwavering devotion — unwavering — unwaver- 
ing. .." 

Count \who has shown impatience throughout the 
reading]. I wish to remark that the rapid style of 
your reading. . . 

Prefect. Time presses, these proofs must be cor- 
rected this evening. 

Count. I know that — but very often the style of 
reading will entirely change the meaning, or at any rate 
. . . {Declaiming. \ " Gentlemen, one word more: in of- 
fering myself for your suffrages — " You see that I do 
not lower myself. I maintain that dignity of which 
I spoke to you just now ; but if you say, " Gentle- 
men, one word more in offering myself for your suf- 
frages — " That is quite different ! I appear to be 
making a concession, which I never do. I appear to 



144 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

descend to a discussion of details, to a familiar ex- 
planation. I invite reply. 

Prefect. I feel that forcibly. 

Count. Not as forcibly as you ought, though. This 
speech is written with great care, and I can safely 
say that each sentence has been weighed carefully, 
and the diction and elocution must not be neglected. 
Pardon me for insisting, but it is a matter of great 
importance. It must not be neglected, or the effect 
will be lost entirely. 

Prefect. I trust to your eloquence, my dear Count, 
to give to this address all the brilliancy. . .Stop, here 
is the sentence I wished to draw your attention to : 
" Too long our unhappy country, like a frail bark," — 

Count. I said unhappy in the sense of unfortunate ; 
unfortunate country in a political view, of course — 
country, victim of intrigues and evil passions, unfor- 
tunate country in fact. Unhappy country, exposed 
to storms and tempests, and then, naturally enough, 
the simile of the bark presented itself to me. 

Prefect. I willingly admit it, but 

Count. Go on — everything is well weighed, and 
each link in the chain of logic is perfect. 

Prefect. " Like a frail bark, buffeted about by the 
dangerous waves of anarchy. Let us consolidate 
the foundation " 

Count. After these words, " dangerous waves of 
anarchy," there is a pause. The mind is as it were 
overwhelmed by that striking and terrible picture, 
" the dangerous waves of anarchy ! " What remem- 
brances ! what lessons in the past ! what menaces 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



*45 



for the future ! There is power enough in that to 
take away one's breath — make one gasp, as it were. 

Prefect. I read it rapidly, that we might lose no 
time. 

Count. You are wrong, my dear friend. There are 
certain things one must never read rapidly. [ With a 
condescending smile.'] Go on ! " Let us consolidate the 
foundation." 

Prefect. " Let us consolidate the immovable foun- 
dation of the throne." Had we not better erase 
" immovable " ? 

Count [annoyed]. Why ? 

Prefect. If we are to consolidate the foundation, it 
is because it is movable ; and if it is movable [Count 
buttons his coat — cold and dignified], why, then, it is 
not immovable. 

Count. Excuse me — I thought I had accomplished 
a serious work when I wrote these pages, and, frank- 
ly, I imagined myself secure from this hypercriticism. 
A few days ago, I said to the Duke of Planskaski, 
one of the cleverest and most refined of men. . . 

Prefect. Skaski — don't know him. 

Count. Polish family. I said to him, " My dear 
Duke, the spirit of criticism and analysis which 
undermines our epoch denotes crumbling and decay." 
The Duke replied with sadness, " You are right." I 
will add, my dear Prefect [he becomes animated], that 
not a discourse, not a page of our literature can 
stand against the corrosive action of the modern 
critic — not a page, not a line, not a word. This 
bitter and hostile analysis from any one, either en- 



146 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

rages or makes me smile ; coming from you, it grieves 
me. 

Prefect. But you exaggerate strangely. The ques- 
tion is simply of an incorrect word, which was, of 
course, unintentional. 

Count. These unintentional errors often lead to 
sad results. In 1815, dirt was found mixed with our 
gunpowder. It was alleged then that this was an 
unintentional error. 

Prefect. Excuse me, dear Count. We will leave 
the adjective " immovable/' since you are so tena- 
cious about it. 

Count. I defy you to find another word which 
would so forcibly express my idea. 

Prefect [reading]. " Let us consolidate the. . .im- 
movable — foundation of the throne." That's very 
well. " Let us form — a fascine, if I may be allowed 
the expression, of our convictions, on the summit of 
which, as on an immense pedestal, the State floats in 
full sail towards its glorious destinies." Don't you 
find that a rather forced figure of speech ? 

Count. Not at all. I find it very good. I would 
say the same if I were not the author. It is very 
good. 

Prefect. I must say I should have preferred some- 
thing more 

Count. What ! You curtail, you destroy, you 
massacre my sentence, and then pretend to judge 
of it ? 

Prefect. Oh no, I assure you 

Count. Excuse me, but you have cut it short. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. j^ 

Prefect. You can make a point 



Count. What do I care for your point ! It is the 
development, the chain of ideas, the arrangement of 
phrases. Here is what I say. [He declaims.] " The 
State which swims in full sail " 

Prefect. Which floats 

Count. Swims or floats — I don't care — in full sail. 
It is a figure of speech, " towards its glorious des- 
tinies. There are people who wish to destroy your 
confidence by evil words. On certain questions one 
must speak with boldness." 

Prefect. On what questions ? 

Count [declaiming]. " On all questions one must 
speak with boldness, and throw light upon them. 
Peace, gentlemen, means prosperity, as war means 
greatness. There is not a soul really French who 
will not tremble with pride before this double 
truth. Electors of the seventh district, there is no 
prosperity without greatness — there is no greatness 
without prosperity." [Rests for a moment with hand 
on breast, facing Prefect, at whom he looks inquir- 
ingly^ 

Prefect. There is great brilliancy in that ! 

Count. And warmth. That is absolutely necessary. 
It is a collective view, which sums up very well . . . 

Prefect. Assuredly. 

Count. Isn't it ? And in a style. . . 

Prefect. Pure. 

Count. I think so ! 

Prefect. But time presses, my dear Count — presses 
us cruelly. Trust me, and do not send out this 



148 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 



second address until after the meeting of the com- 
mittee. 

Count. I am not afraid of the committees, and, 
as I say further on, " No more subterfuges. Confi- 
dence is the beacon-light of strong minds "... 

Prefect. Enough talking — let us act. Make your 
appearance at the end of the meeting, and baptize 
your school boldly and simply. That is everything, 
believe me. I must leave — my presence is abso- 
lutely necessary at the Prefecture. Good by, dear 
Count. [Exit. 



SCENE VIII. 
Count — Servant. 



Count [to Servant, who enters]. What is it, Joseph ? 
[In an undertone .] There is no greatness without 
prosperity, there is no prosperity without greatness, 
but — the Prefect is a fool. [Seeing Servant^ Eh ! 
eh ! what do you want ? 

Servant. Your foot-bath is ready, sir. 

Count. Well, take it yourself. I don't want it now. 
I feel better, a great deal better ; the approach of a 
decisive struggle raises my courage and gives me 
double strength ; it seems to me there is something 
providential in it. 

Servant. His honor the Mayor has come to ask 
you 

Count. Didn't you tell him that I was very much 
engaged ? 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



149 



Servant. Yes, sir, and he excused himself and 
left . . . 

Count. He is considerate — I will say that for him. 

Servant. He begged you would send him the tex. . . 
tex . . . the text. 

Count. What text ? 

Servant. The text of the impromptu speech for 
the fire brigade. 

Count. Good gracious ! that's true ! I had for- 
gotten the toast that I intended to improvise for the 
fire brigade dinner. 

Servant. The men with the fireworks are down 
stairs, sir. 

Count. Ah ! I am glad to hear it. Tell them to 
wait. [Exit Servant. 



SCENE IX. 
Count — Countess — Ledoyen. 

Countess [with animation]. He is here. 

Count. Who ? 

Countess. The Abbe le Roux. Accomplish this 
business at any cost, and as quickly as possible. 

Count. Oh ! I forgot the Abbe ! — I'll get even 
with him. 

Ledoyen. Here is the deed in duplicate, ready for 
the signatures. 

Count [puts deeds in drawer]. All right ! 

Countess [going, followed by Ledoyen, with energetic 
and graceful gesture]. Annihilate him ! 



150 THE CARDINAL \S ILLNESS. 

SCENE X. 
Count — Abbe le Roux — Servant. 

Servant. Monsieur Abbe le Roux. 

Abbe [much moved\. I have but a moment to 
stay, as the Cardinal has had a relapse. 

Count. Is it possible ? 

Abbe. It was very sudden — at least this is what I 
hear — for I was not able to see our dear Cardinal, 
having met your servant at the very moment I was 
about to enter the palace. Nothing less than the 
touching tone of your note would have made me 
come back — but you must see that every moment 
is of importance. 

Count. The same with me. I shall be brief, never 
fear ; let us speak to the point. I have written some- 
where that " frankness is the beacon-light of strong 
minds." Then let us come to the point. In selling 
Les Herbiers you wish that Claude's future should 
be well secured — I will give him the lease of the 
farm of La Breche, that's done ! Now. . . 

Abbe. Don't let us return to this painful subject, 
I beg. I have neither the time nor the coolness 
necessary to deal with such an affair. Why should 
we hurry matters ? Wait until spring. My heart, 
my duty calls me to the bedside of our dear Cardi- 
nal. Allow me to leave you. 

Count. Let me say two words to you. I have a 
great desire to purchase your property as you know. 
You profit by my peculiar position ; I don't blame 
you, my dear Abbe; business is business. You profit 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



151 



by my situation, to make me pay for your little place 
ten times what it is worth. Very well ! 

Abbe. Observe, please, that you wish to make a 
bargain with me ; which, far from being desirable, is 
actually repugnant to me. The idea alone causes 
me real grief. Now, in this position of affairs, on 
what basis do you expect me to estimate the price of 
this property, if it is not upon the strength of my re- 
grets at parting with it ? [6V&.] 

Count. Xo doubt you are justified in so doing — 
but my great anxiety to make this purchase, will 
probably not last forever, and the time that you require 
for reflection, may be dangerous to your interests ; 
besides, I don't altogether understand this intensity 
of feeling that you have revived. I acknowledge — I 
respect even the associations which bind you to the 
old ruin ; but the love that you feel for it must 
be very Platonic, for I do not hear of your having 
seen your ancestral home more than once during the 
last six years. Excuse my frankness, but time is 
short. 

Abbe. Believe me, my dear Count, the honor you 
confer on my little place in desiring to possess it, 
would alone increase its value a hundred-fold. 

Count \laughing\ Hundred-fold — that's enor- 
mous ! absurd ! Come, let us be serious ! [Gentle 
voice.'] Les Herbiers, you know as well as I do, has 
no value ; you get nothing from it 

Abbe. Allow me to stop you there. The insignifi- 
cance of the rent that I have accepted for the last 
fifteen years, without complaint, far from diminish- 



15- 



THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 



ing the intrinsic value of Les Herbiers, increases it 
on the contrary. 

Count. Explain. 

Abbe. Isn't it fair that the capital you offer should 
repay me for my fifteen years of sacrifice ? 

Count. Fifteen years of sacrifice ! Well ! strike 
out the remembrance of each of these years by a 
note of one thousand francs, and be done with it ! I 
act liberally, as you see. 

Abbe. You are in a hurry, monsieur ? 

Count. Good heavens ! if I were not in a hurry, 
do you think I would make such offers to you ? fif- 
teen thousand francs ! 

Abbe. It is too much ! 

Count. That don't matter. 

Abbe. Too much — for me, not enough for you, 
monsieur. How can I explain to myself your great 
eagerness for this purchase, but by supposing that 
you feel very sure of realizing considerable profit 
from some intrinsic value in my property entire- 
ly unknown to me at present ? Can I forget that in 
the little tree which I cede to you, there may be a 
powerful oak, from which, no doubt, you will draw 
immense profit ? 

Count. But then 

Abbe. Do you think that I could have the heart to 
deprive my humble heirs of this little fortune ? or, in 
default of heirs, the poor, who are our especial charge. 
[Rises.] But the Cardinal's condition will not permit 
me to remain here longer ; my respects, monsieur. 
[Bows.] 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 153 

Count. Abbe — twenty thousand francs. I will go 
to twenty thousand ; and now, I've done ! 

Abbe [with reserve]. You are very liberal, mon- 
sieur. 

Count. Pardon my brusqueness, my dear sir. I 
have promised to open my heart to you. Well then, 
twenty thousand francs, but not a penny more. 

Abbe. You speak frankly ; I will imitate your ex- 
ample. The same proposals you do me the honor to 
make for my little property, were made a short time 
ago by the " Brothers of Christian Schools," who find- 
ing Les Herbiers remarkably well suited to their pur- 
pose, wished to found an establishment there — shall 
I tell you ? 

Count [aside]. That must never be ! 

Abbe. Shall I tell you ? In spite of the excellence 
of the intention, I was as weak with the good brothers 
as I am with you ; and even now, between these two 
offers, equally liberal, I am still painfully undecided. 

Count. Do you think the good brothers would give 
you money down on the spot, on the execution of 
the deed, twenty-five thousand good francs, as I am 
ready to do ? [Triumphant attitude.] 

Abbe. Poor dear brothers ! of what are they not 
capable, when it is a question of helping the poor, 
enlightening the ignorant, and supporting the feeble ? 
[Bowing. \ I have the honor 

Count [excited]. Don't you know, Abbe, that a 
cord, however strong, will break at last, when too 
much strained, and that, by pushing a joke too far, 
one is exposed. . . 



154 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

Abbe [coldly]. I am detaining you, monsieur. 

Count [aside]. I must be calm. [Aloud.] Come, 
Monsieur l'Abbe, how much was it I offered you ? for 
really I have lost my head in the midst of this con- 
fusion. Twenty-five thousand francs, I think. 

Abbe. Or thirty thousand, I am not quite sure. 

Count. Wasn't it rather twenty-eight ? 

Abbe. So far as I can trust my recollection, it was 
thirty thousand you said. 

Count. Well, if I said so, let it be thirty thousand. 
Now sign, the deed is ready. [Takes papers from 
drawer/] 

Abbe [with deep sigh]. Ah ! what this costs me ! 

Count. And me, too ! [Looks at watch and signs 
papers.] Now, it is your turn. 

Abbe. But there is no hurry — 

Count. Excuse me, but let us finish this ; you have 
only to sign, and there is an end of it. 

Abbe- Yes, there's an end of it. A stroke of the 
pen is enough to break the tenderest ties. 

Count. And to make you rich at the same time. 
You surely don't hesitate ? 

Abbe. Oh no ! I don't hesitate, but I should like 
to read the deed. I am not familiar with this sort of 
thing. I should like to think it over a moment. 

Servant [enters] . The men about the fireworks 
wish to speak to you, monsieur ; and the Mayor 
wishes 

Count. Very well. [Aside.] Can't they leave me 
at peace five minutes ? [To Abbe. ] You wish to read 
these papers. I understand — it's the simplest thing 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. 



J 55 



in the world, my dear Abbe. Go into this room while 
I receive these people. It won't detain me a mo- 
ment, and then you can come back and sign. 

Abbe. It won't take me long. [Goes to other room.'] 

Count. Show the workmen in. 

Servant. They don't wish to disturb you, mon- 
sieur. They only wish to know if they shall put the 
eagle over the fountain. 

Count. The eagle over the fountain [thinking, aside]. 
If I promise to make it secular, the eagle has no 
meaning. On the other side, my proclamation. 
[Aloud.] Tell them to finish the fountain, and put 
the eagle in the coach-house, until I have decided. 
See that the frame is strong enough. 

Servant. Very well, monsieur. The Mayor is be- 
low ; he wishes the tex — text for the impromptu 
speech. 

Count. He shall have it in a moment. [Exit Ser- 
vant.] 



SCENE XL 
Count, alone. 



Count [seats himself at his desk, and searches among 
papers]. That speech ought to be here somewhere 
— ah, here it is. [Reads.] " Sapeurs Pompiers : I 
come here without pomp " — [he writes] — proba- 
ble laughter. One has to be very literal with the 
worthy Mayor. [Reading] — "without pomp, but with 
brotherly feeling, to express to you the -joy I feel in 



156 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

finding myself amongst you again. We all wish the 
prosperity of the country, and extinction of igno- 
rance ; that the roads in the neighborhood should be 
kept in good order, etc. In offering you a roller for 
crushing stones, easily handled " — [writes] prolonged 
applause. " Don't thank me, my friends, etc., etc. 
In creating a large school, well-conducted " — [writes] 
endless applause ; " enough, I beg of you." [Noise 
at door.] What is it now ? Come in ! 



SCENE XI L 



Count — Countess [furious] — Ledoyen [out of 
breath]. 

Ledoyen [agitated]. The committee 



Count. I'll go at once. It is time, isn't it ? [To 
Countess.] I have concluded the affair with the 
Abbe. 

Ledoyen. Alas ! monsieur ! alas ! 

Countess. Concluded ? for how much ? 

Count. Never mind the amount — thirty thousand 
francs. 

Ledoyen. I have just left the committees. From 
the opening of the meeting the tumult was great. I 
do not know under what influence — alas ! 

Count. Speak, Ledoyen, speak ! 

Ledoyen. At the very opening of the discussion, 
your name was scratched angrily from the list. They 
were like madmen. I can find no other term to ap- 
ply to them, they were so excited. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTIXG. 



157 



Count. Reflect on what you say, Ledoyen, for, 
from your account, my election will be absolutely 
lost. 

Ledoyen. It is lost, monsieur, without a doubt ! 

Countess. This is an insult to your name. 

Count. Even before hearing me they 

Ledoyen. It is a conspiracy ! an infernal trick ! 

Count. Silence, sir ! Poor country ! Will you 
always be the victim of conspirators ? This is cruel! 
cruel ! 

Countess. Thirty thousand francs ! But why were 
you in such a hurry about that signature ? The 
Abbe le Roux 

Count. Hush ! he is in the next room. 

Countess. Then it is not entirely settled yet ? 

Count. I have signed, but he has not. 

Countess. Thank heaven ! Leave me alone here — 
leave me, there is not a moment to lose. 

Count. Come, Ledoyen. [Exeunt. 



SCENE XIII. 
Countess, alone — then Abbe le Roux. 

Countess. Ah, if I were a man ! [She goes to the 
door, knocks gently, smiling, .] Are you there, Monsieur 
I 1 Abbe ? 

Abbe [from other room]. Yes, madam. [Door 
opens, enter Abbe '.] 

Countess. Do you know that the Cardinal has been 



I 5 3 THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

taken very ill ? He has had a very serious relapse ; 
very serious, they say. 

Abbe [calmly]. Luckily the Cardinal has a very 
strong constitution. 

Countess. Undoubtedly, and then the report is 
probably exaggerated ; but I don't wish to keep you 
at a time when your presence is so necessary to him. 
[Looking at papers in Abbe's hands. .] What is that ? 
Oh, I know ! they are the papers for the sale of your 
property. The Count has just told me something 
about it — excuse his persistence — but he was en- 
tirely ignorant of the condition of the Cardinal. 
This evening, or to-morrow, we will talk it over 
again. 

Abbe. Don't be alarmed, madam, this attack was 
expected. 

Countess. Ah, so much the better. I am sensitive 
to a fault ; and when I was informed that the Cardi- 
nal was worse, and that you were detained here by 
my husband, I w T as beside myself. 

Abbe. Calm yourself. 

Countess. It is beyond my control. 

Abbe. I know very w r ell how delicate and refined 
natures . . . but nothing of importance keeps me here 
now, and if you will allow me, I will return imme- 
diately to the bedside of our dear sufferer. 

Countess. That's right, fly, my dear Abbe — busi- 
ness can wait — the Cardinal before everything. 

Abbe [putting paper on desk]. Will you be kind 
enough to tell the Count that I have left the deed on 
his desk ? 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. j-q 

Countess. Yes, yes — never mind that — to-morrow, 
or whenever you choose. 

Abbe [signing]. They are signed, madam. I found 
writing materials in the next room \_he carefully folds 
the duplicate and puts in pocket], and as monsieur 
was in a great hurry, I placed my name at the bottom 
of the papers, hard as the sacrifice was. 

Countess. You, my dear Abbe, made a victim by 
the Count's act ? Ah ! how I regret this inconceiv- 
able obstinacy of his. 

Abbe. Alas ! madam, your precious sympathy 
comes too late to console my grief. 

Countess. It is never too late to remedy an evil. 
Why did you not call me to your rescue ? 

Abbe. But you yourself insisted upon my selling 
my poor little property. 

Countess. Did I really insist ? it is possible. But 
could I foresee that this insistance would affect you 
so much ? Why didn't you tell me everything ? 
Women, you know, are good advisers in delicate af- 
fairs of the heart ; I would have understood you, 
have aided you. have ... I would have spared you 
all these remorseful feelings. Poor Abbe ! 

Abbe. It was with bitter emotion that I signed 
this deed, which separated me forever from my 
humble roof ; but I asked myself whether there were 
not in my grief symptoms of too great attachment 
to the things of this world. Perhaps Providence has 
sent me this trial to prove me ; and I found, in more 
elevated thoughts, forgetfulness of my miseries. 

Countess. Your grief distresses me greatly ; but 



i6o THE CARDINAL'S ILLNESS. 

why despair ? Should a bargain made in the 
midst of such trouble and anxiety bind you ? Can a 
stroke of the pen destroy a beautiful future, efface 
a whole past, make you renounce your homestead 
with its shady groves, and the orchard so fresh and 
so fertile [the Abbe sighs\, and the fountain with its 
murmuring water ?.. .Trust to me and this wicked 
dream shall be destroyed forever. 

Abbe. Sweet and persuasive as your influence 
may be with the Count, the victory will not be so 
easy as you think ; and I would not for the world 
expose you, madam, to a refusal which you, in your 
great goodness, cannot believe possible. 

Countess. I answer for everything ; let us destroy 
this fatal signature. Say the word, and I promise 
you the thing shall be done. 

Abbe. Let us accept facts, madam, and change 
nothing that human laws have sanctioned. I must 
hasten to the Cardinal. [On the point of starting^ 
Dare I beg you to give to the Count a piece of impor- 
tant information, and which, in his hurry to conclude 
the affair of Les Herbiers, he did not give me time 
to communicate to him, as I intended ? That is, 
that the electoral committees, seized with vertigo no 
doubt, have decided unanimously to reject as candi- 
date . . . 

Countess. My husband. I knew it, thank you ! 

Abbe. I heard it yesterday morning by accident. 
Alas ! madam, I condole with you sincerely. 

[Exit Abbe'. 



PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING, 161 

SCENE XIV. 
Countess — Count, very dignified — Servant. 

Count. Well, madam, well ? 
Countess. Here is the deed, all in order. 
Servant. The clerk, from Saxe & Co., wishes to 
speak to monsieur on important business. 
Count. Tell him to go to the devil ! 
Curtain falls. 



THE MAGISTRATE. 



A Farce in Three Acts. By Arthur W. 
Plsero. Twelve male, four female char- 

— — — — — — — — — — — — • acters. Costumes, modern ; scenery, all 

Interior. The merits of this excellent and amusing piece, one of the most popu- 
lar of its author's plays, are well attested by long and repeated runs in the 
principal American theatres. It is of the highest class of dramatic writing, and 
is uproariously funny, and at the same time unexceptionable in tone. Its entire 
suitability for amateur performance has been shown by hundreds of such pro- 
ductions from manuscript during the past three years. Plays two hours and 
a half. (1892.) 

A Drama in Four Acts. By Arthur W. 
Plsuro. Eight male and five female charac- 
ters; scenery, all interiors. This is a "prob- 
lem " play continuing the series to which " The 
Profligate "and "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" 
belong, and while stronglv dramatic, and intensely interesting is not suited for 
amateur performance. It is recommended for Reading Clubs. (1895.) 



THE NOTORIOUS 
MRS. EBBSMITH. 



THE PROFLIGATE. I 



A Play in Four Acts. By Arthur "W. Pine- 
ro. Seven male and five female characters. 

' — ' Scenery, three interiors, rather elaborate ; 

costumes, modern. This is a piece of serious interest, powerfully dramatic in 
movement, and tragic in its event. An admirable play, but not suited for ama- 
teur performance. (1892.) 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 



A Farce in Three Acts. By Arthur 
W. Plsero. Nine male, seven fe- 
male characters. Costumes, mod- 
ern ; scenery, three interiors, easily arranged. This ingenious and laughable 
farce was played by Miss Rosina Yokes during her last season in America with 
great success. Its plot is amusing, its action rapid and full of incident, -its dia- 
logue brilliant, and its scheme of character especially rich in quaint and humor- 
ous types. The Hon. Vere Queckett and Peggy are especially strong. The piece 
is in all respects suitable for amateurs. (1894.) 



THE SECOND 
MRS. TANQUERAY. 



A Play in Four Acts. By Arthur TV. 
PrxERO. Eight male and five female char- 
acters. Costumes, modern; scenery, three 
interiors. This well-known and powerful 
play is not well suited for amateur per- 
formance. It is offered to Mr. Pinero's admirers among the reading public in 
answer to the demand which its wide discussion as an acted plav has created. 
(1894.) Also in Cloth, $1.00. 



SWEET LAVENDER. 



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A Comedy in Three Acts. By Arthur 
TV. Plsuro. Seven male and four female 
characters. Scene, a single interior, the 
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comedy interest abundant and strong. (1893.) 



TTHK TTTVTF1S- I A Comedy in Four Acts. By Arthur TV. Phtero. Six 

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|\ A DOLL'S HOUSE. 



The Plays of Henrik Ibsen. 

Edited, with Critical and Biographical Introduction, 
by EDMUND GOSSE. 

This reries is offered to meet a growing demand for the plays of this well- 
abused ar :l hotly-discussed writer, whose influence over the contemporary drama 
is enormous even if his vogue in the American theatre he still regrettably 
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contemporaries. This edition is printed in large, clear type, well suited for the 
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A Play in Three Acts. Translated by Wil- 
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THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY. 



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Translated b y William 

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GHOSTS. 



ROSMERSHOLM. | 



A Drama in Three Acts. Translated by William 
Archer. Three male, two female characters. 

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male, six female characters. 

WPTYHA C ART "FTP I A Drama in Four Acts. Translated by 
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Translated by Henry 

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